unspeakable
by memorysdaughter
Summary: Jemma Simmons has worked with some of the most disturbed psychiatric patients at Shield Memorial Hospital, and she thinks she can handle anything. Her new patient was just found in a closet at a murder scene, mute and traumatized, with words carved into her skin. Jemma Simmons is in way over her head.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I just can't stop writing lately. I look forward to hearing what you think about this new story.

* * *

unspeakable

"Got an interesting case for you, Dr. Simmons."

"I told you, Dr. Coulson, I wasn't interested in taking on any more cases." Jemma Simmons was grateful for her job. She really was. It was an honor to be a psychiatrist at Shield Memorial Hospital – one of the highest-ranked specialty hospitals in the country – but her caseload was heavy with four inpatients and the two outpatient support groups she led. And somehow, Dr. Coulson's "interesting cases" always turned out to be more complicated than solving a jigsaw puzzle while blindfolded and handcuffed and forced to do said puzzle with one's toes.

"You're going to want to take this one." Dr. Coulson – _Phil_ , as he'd told her to call him many times – nodded and gave her that smile that made Jemma wanted to scream in frustration.

Somehow he always smiled when he knew he was right, and something about that irked Jemma.

She sighed and closed the patient file she was reviewing. "Something tells me this is urgent."

"They always are around here. She's being admitted now. We'll be putting her in the Blue Room."

The inpatient psychiatric floor at Shield Memorial was a 12-bed ward and specialized in treating the most severe mental patients in the region. Smaller than most traditional psychiatric wards, it allowed the staff to form closer relationships and create better treatment plans with their patients. Each patient had their own room, and the staff identified the rooms by their colors.

Jemma shrugged back into her white coat and took off her reading glasses. "It's a nice room."

"It's got a big closet," Dr. Coulson agreed.

Jemma frowned at him. "What does that mean?"

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

* * *

 _Room too big. Room too big._

 _Lights too bright. Lights too bright._

 _Dad. Where is Dad? Where is Dad? He had to fix. He had to fix. Couldn't type without Dad._

 _Room too big. Too noisy. Heartbeat big in ears._

 _Man in the kitchen. Man is not Dad. Man gun. Gun bang shoot too loud. Too noisy._

 _The room is too big._

Skye brought her hands up to her eyes and pressed her palms against her eye sockets. She wanted her headphones. She wanted her sunglasses. She wanted to be back in the closet.

Except she wasn't safe in the closet anymore. Not since the man with the gun had burst into the kitchen and Dad had done something to him.

 _Room too big. Too noisy. Too many people._

"Skye?"

It was a person. A person was saying her name.

 _Can't type. Can't type. Can't type._

 _Too big. Too big! TOO BIG!_

Skye pushed her hands in further against her eyes and began to rock back and forth.

"Skye, we want to take you upstairs to the room where you'll be staying. You can stay right here on this bed. I wanted to let you know…."

 _Too many words. Don't understand._

 _Can't type._

 _Back. Forth. Back. Forth._

 _Too many words. Too loud._

"… and then…"

The words swam over Skye like a swarm of bees. They stung her ears, they buzzed around her hands and her eyes and she just wanted them _gone._

Her arms weren't her own anymore. Or her feet. She was a windmill. She was a tornado. She wanted everyone out of her way, she didn't want them to touch her anymore. She wanted, she _wanted_.

Skye flopped to the floor and pulled her body under the bed she'd been sitting on. She pulled her knees up to her chest, pressed her hands in against her eyes, and started to rock again.

 _No more. Too many words._

 _Too loud. Too big._

"Jesus. Girl's a time bomb."

"Mack. Really?"

"Did you see what she just did to Audrey?"

"They pulled her out of a _murder scene_ , Mack, and she's got words carved all over her body. I'm surprised it took her this long to get upset."

"We got permission to give her a sedative?"

 _No. No drugs. No more. Too many words._

 _Dad. Need Dad. Dad in kitchen. Computer in kitchen._

 _Too big._

 _Don't want to go back. Don't want to go back._

 _Don't make me go back. Don't make me go back._

* * *

Jemma followed Phil down to the emergency room. She was surprised when he led her to one of the exam rooms in the back hallway, usually reserved for minor cases. A patient ill enough to need the psychiatric ward at Shield Memorial was _not_ a minor case.

"Are you going to explain any of this to me?" Jemma asked.

"I don't have a lot of explanations to give you," Dr. Coulson said. "I only know the details, and they're spotty. Twenty-one-year-old female with autism pulled from a closet at a double murder scene. Her name is Skye."

"How do we know that?"

"She's wearing a medic alert bracelet with a QR code on it," Dr. Coulson answered. "One of the orderlies scanned it and got those details."

"Was she harmed in the… incident?"

"No," Dr. Coulson said. "She was completely unharmed. They found her in a closet wearing headphones and sunglasses. When they touched her she screamed. To be honest I'm not sure…"

The door to the exam room banged open and a nurse Jemma recognized as Dr. Coulson's girlfriend, Audrey, stumbled out, holding a gauze pad to her forehead.

"Audrey?" Dr. Coulson strode forward, his tone worried. "What happened?"

"She just went _crazy_!" the nurse managed to get out. "I was telling her about what was going to happen next and she came off the bed like a tiger, kicking and scratching!"

She let out a huffy sigh. Dr. Coulson carefully removed the gauze pad to look at the wounds.

"When you spoke to her, what did you say?" Jemma asked.

"I told her that we were going to take her upstairs but she could stay on the bed and…"

Jemma cut her off. "Did you use that many words?"

Audrey looked at her, disgusted. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"She has autism," Jemma said, "and today has undoubtedly been the most traumatic of her life. It was probably very difficult for her to pick out the message."

"Well, then how would _you_ have done it?"

Jemma shrugged. "I would have let her lead."

Dr. Coulson studied Jemma. "Who's in there with her?" he asked Audrey.

"Mack and Trip," Audrey answered. "Mack wants to sedate her, so if you're going to go in there and 'let her lead,' you'd better get in there."

Jemma nodded. To Dr. Coulson, she said, "Can you go down to facilities management and get me a set of ear protection muffs? And then borrow some sunglasses from someone – if you can't find any, I have some on my desk in my office."

"I'll give Sitwell a call," Dr. Coulson said. "He owes me one. Actually, most of facilities management owes me one."

"Thank you," Jemma said.

"Are we going to talk about what she just did to me?" Audrey demanded.

"It looks superficial," Dr. Coulson said. "I'll find you and give you some antibiotic cream and cuddles later."

Audrey rolled her eyes and stormed away.

"I apologize for that," Jemma said.

"It's fine," Dr. Coulson said. "This patient needs our help more than Audrey does. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Jemma carefully opened the door, trying to make as little noise as possible. She saw the empty gurney at the far end, medical supplies scattered across the floor, and two orderlies with their arms crossed against the opposite wall.

She moved towards them slowly. "Good afternoon," she said, keeping her voice low.

"About time someone got here," Mack snapped at her.

"Speak quietly, please," Jemma requested. "Walk quietly. Turn the lights off. Leave the room."

"What the hell kind of a plan is that?" Mack asked. "You can't just…"

"Speak quietly," Jemma repeated, lowering her voice even further. "Walk quietly. Turn the lights off. Leave."

Trip took Mack by the elbow. "Thank you," he said. He flicked off the lights, opened the door, and shoved Mack out in front of him.

The door closed quietly behind them.

Jemma looked over at the gurney. She couldn't see anyone under it, but she heard a soft sigh from beneath it.

"I'm Jemma," she said, taking a seat on the floor. "I'm a friend. I'm here."

And she waited.

* * *

When the lights shut off Skye brought her hands away from her eyes. She didn't stop rocking, but her heart rate slowed slightly. Then she heard a new voice. A quiet voice. Using simple, short sentences.

 _Dad. Computer, Dad._

 _Don't make me go back._

 _Going back. NO!_

"Skye," her mother breathed into her ear. The singsong voice felt like nails being pounded into her spine and she grabbed her hair, pulling hard to block it out.

"Skye, don't listen to her. She doesn't want to help you."

The hair wasn't enough pain. Skye started smacking her head.

 _Don't want to go back_.

"Skye, you should have come with me."

 _Smack head. Both hands. Make it stop_.

"Skye…" Her mother's voice wrapped around her like a snake.

 _Too close. Too close. Please stop._

"You can't get away from me, Skye."

 _Dad! Dad! You promised!_

A scream burst out of her mouth and she felt as though her chest was going to explode.

Skye threw herself to the floor and began beating her head against the floor.

 _Make it stop. Make it stop. MAKE IT STOP._

* * *

When the girl under the bed screamed and began hitting her head on the tile floor Jemma bolted forward. She forced herself to remain calm. Behavioral outbursts were part of autism, and such episodes could come on without warning.

"Skye," Jemma said gently. "You are safe. I am here."

The scream had devolved into guttural choking, though Skye's frantic head-hitting did not slow.

"You are safe," Jemma repeated. "I am here."

There was a soft knock at the door, and then the door was opened a few inches, just wide enough for Dr. Coulson to pass in a pair of ear protectors and some bright pink sunglasses.

"Thank you," Jemma murmured as she took them.

"Do you need help?" he asked softly.

"Not yet," she replied. "We're taking it slowly."

"Let us know," Dr. Coulson said. "Someone will be right outside this door. Not Mack."

Jemma nodded.

Dr. Coulson closed the door and Jemma turned back to the gurney. "Skye, I have headphones and sunglasses. They are on the floor next to you."

She knelt down and placed the two items next to Skye's left hand, then retreated to the other side of the room.

"You are safe," Jemma said once she'd resumed her seated position on the floor. "I am here."

Skye's hand scrabbled out from beneath the bed and grabbed the headphones and glasses. Jemma could hear her breathing – it was quick and raspy and the girl sounded terrified. In the mere seconds Jemma could see her hand, the doctor thought she saw something on the skin. She leaned forward, trying to get a closer look, but Skye's hand disappeared.

It had looked like a word.

But that was impossible.

Wasn't it?

* * *

Even the slow, gentle sentences were grating down Skye's spine. She heard the words "headphones" and "sunglasses" and they floated to her like a life preserver to a drowning woman. Her hand couldn't get out to them fast enough.

The headphones were the kind she liked, too, hard plastic with the foam inserts, the kind that could withstand the noise of a NASCAR race or a death metal concert. The sunglasses obviously belonged to a girly girl – they were pink and had sparkles on them.

 _Don't like the sparkles._

 _Don't want the sparkles._

 _Want the dark. Want the quiet._

Skye slipped the headphones over her ears and immediately felt the tension in her body decrease. Even with the sparkles, the sunglasses were still dark, and her world got small and quiet and dim. It was just the way she liked it.

And her mother's voice was gone.

 _Can win. Can win against you._

Skye pulled her knees back up to her chest and flattened her left hand against her sternum, flexing her fingers against the sturdy bone so that her knuckles tapped a rhythm.

Her right hand came up nearly automatically, pulling up her sleeve. The rhythmic tapping of her knuckles against her sternum didn't stop as her right pointer traced the word carved into the skin on her left elbow. It had been one of the first, long since scarred over, but she knew exactly what it said.

 _Liar._

And then, in the dark, in the quiet, in the tiny safe space that felt like a womb, she let herself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you for such an overwhelmingly positive reaction to the first chapter! I hope you'll enjoy this next part just as much.

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites - you're wonderful!

A language warning for the first part of this chapter, and some things that might potentially be triggering for self-harm.

* * *

Jemma listened to Skye cry, tucked back under the gurney. For a long series of moments the girl just sobbed. Then the crying slowed, then stopped, and Skye's breathing returned to normal. Shortly after that Jemma heard a series of _click_ s, and a quick check under the bed confirmed her theory – Skye had fallen asleep; the clicks were from the headphones coming in contact with the tile floor.

Jemma stood and quietly made her way to the door. She opened it and looked out into the hallway. Dr. Coulson and Trip were there.

"How is she?" Trip asked.

"She's asleep," Jemma replied, letting the door close carefully behind her. "I think it's time to talk about our plan."

Dr. Coulson nodded. "Lay it on us, Dr. Simmons."

Jemma smiled. She liked when Dr. Coulson tried to act like he was a "hip adolescent." Somehow it made him goofy, almost like a father figure. "I think while she's asleep we should administer a sedative. She's clearly exhausted; giving her the chance to rest can't hurt, and it will give us the chance to make sure she wasn't injured and transfer her upstairs."

"Good call," Trip said.

"Do we have any way to find out more information about her?" Jemma asked. "Knowing her name and age and that she has autism is useful, but I think there are a lot of other things in play and I'd like to know what we're facing."

"Detective Campbell was the one who contacted us about her originally," Dr. Coulson said. "He's overseeing the investigation at her home and he promised to call when there was more information or any breakthrough in the case. He seems… oddly attached to her."

 _Me too_ , Jemma thought, and a quick look at Trip confirmed that he was thinking the same thing.

"I'll put in the order for the sedative," Jemma said. "Trip, will you find our guest some other clothing?"

"I'm on it," Trip said. "I'll grab a clean-up kit while I'm at it."

Jemma wanted to kiss him for not referring to the kits the way the other orderlies and nurses often did, as "rape kits" or "bodily evidence kits" depending on the situation. Even though no patient was present, it showed Trip's gentle humanity. He was always conscientious, always focused on providing care and comfort.

"Thank you," Jemma said.

Dr. Coulson's phone rang and he removed it from his coat pocket. "Coulson. Ah, Detective Campbell. We were just talking about you."

He moved away a few steps to continue the conversation, and Jemma headed for the closest computer to put in the medication order.

Twenty minutes later the sedative had been administered and Trip had found suitable clothing and supplies. He moved the gurney away from the wall and Jemma carefully rolled Skye towards her, giving Trip enough room to step in and pick the girl up.

"Her ID bracelet said she's twenty-one," Trip observed, "but I don't believe it. She's tiny."

"People with autism often have strange dietary compulsions," Jemma said. "I've had patients or read case studies on children who would only eat five or six things, and they'd rather go hungry than eat anything else. Or… it could be something else entirely."

Trip set Skye on the gurney and both medical professionals set about removing her clothing to perform an examination. Trip prepared a sheet to place over Skye's body to provide modesty throughout, allowing Jemma to put gloves on and begin filling out Skye's chart.

Jemma finished initialing the chart and looked up to see Trip frozen, the sheet still in his hands.

"What is it?" she asked him.

Trip shook his head, and Jemma crossed the room to stand next to him, looking down at Skye's upper body.

"Is that…? Are those…?" Jemma couldn't figure out how to end a sentence.

"They are," Trip answered, and though an outsider would have marveled at his steady voice, Jemma had been working with him long enough to know that he was angry and scared.

Jemma swallowed, hard.

All of Skye's exposed skin, from the neck down, seemed to be covered in words. The words had been carved into her with something like a scalpel, something with precision, and each word was old enough to have scarred over into thin, raised lines.

 _Liar._

 _Whore._

 _Slut._

 _Bitch._

 _Waste of space._

 _Head case._

 _Mutant._

 _Cunt._

 _Thief._

 _Mistake._

"I don't think she did these to herself," Jemma said, trying hard not to vomit. "At least a few of these are physically impossible for her to reach, and people with autism often have difficulty with fine motor control. That means… that means someone had to do this. How could someone _do_ this?"

Trip looked down and gently took Skye's hand in his. His thumb grazed the small word on the back of her hand – _devil_ – and he said, "There's evil in this world, girl."

Jemma nodded.

"Wait," Trip said, looking up suddenly. He carefully tucked the sheet around Skye. She let out a soft whimper and turned onto her side, even in her sleep reaching up for the headphones to make sure she was still in the silence she craved. Finding them in place, she stilled and let out a quiet sigh, fast asleep. "I know who she is."

* * *

The treatment team from the LTAPCU (long-term adult psychiatric care unit) met in the conference room near the nurse's station. Skye's examination had been quick but thorough; no recent injuries were apparent. Jemma took several photos of Skye's scars before she and Trip dressed the girl in the borrowed clothes, saving the originals for the police. Trip took charge of the gurney and they rode the elevator up to the eighth floor, then moved Skye down the hallway to the Blue Room.

Dr. Coulson had placed pillows and blankets in the closet of the Blue Room, turning it into a little nest. That was where Trip gently laid Skye, headphones and sunglasses still on, sedative still coursing through her body, fully asleep, before joining Jemma and the rest of the team in the conference room. It hurt him to close the doors on the fragile young woman, despite Jemma's reassurance that Skye _wanted_ a tiny enclosed space. It just didn't seem right.

A policeman was with Dr. Coulson when the chief doctor entered the room.

"Team, this is Detective Lincoln Campbell," Dr. Coulson said, indicating the detective. "He has some information for us, and I'm sure we have questions for him."

"Sir?" Trip raised his hand. "When Dr. Simmons and I were examining Skye, I realized I had seen her somewhere before."

He handed his tablet forward. "She was in the news about five years ago."

"Oh, God," Dr. Coulson said as he read the article Trip had pulled up. "Are you serious?"

Trip nodded.

"What is it?" Mack asked.

Jemma shot him a dirty look.

"Let me pull it up for you," Dr. Coulson answered, and he plugged Trip's tablet into the large monitor at the far end of the room.

The article appeared in stark black and white, its only relief the colored photos dotted throughout. Its message took Jemma's breath away.

" _Autistic Girl Discovered in Biomedical Research Lab."_

 _The director of Next Generation Genetics , Jiaying Zi, was arrested Thursday morning following an anonymous call to the authorities. The tipster claimed that human research was being done in the labs there and that a child was at risk. Next Generation Genetics was raided twelve hours later, with Captain Edward Sanchez and Sergeant Rebecca O'Reilly leading a team through the premises. They discovered multiple illegal research projects in progress, including some that violated international bioethics treaties._

 _A young woman was found in the research laboratories. Two lab techs were with her but chose to remain silent when questioned. Further information discovered in the lab identified this young woman as Skye Johnson-Zi, the daughter of Zi. Research found at the complex shows that over a period of several years, the girl was subjected to inhumane "research" protocols designed, among other things, to test the limits of pain and to search for a cure for aging. Additional information on the research projects has been turned over to the police department for analysis. Johnson-Zi sustained multiple physical injuries, including scarring, burns, and a broken elbow; she was taken to Shield Memorial Hospital for assessment and treatment._

 _Johnson-Zi is 15 and suffers from autism. She was released into the care of her father, Calvin Johnson, who has been fighting to regain custody of her following his divorce from Zi. Further information on the custody battle can be found in the articles below._

 _The Times-Lantern_ _will keep you updated on the circumstances surrounding the research, including what charges will be brought against Zi, in the days ahead._

Jemma looked at her coworkers' faces. Trip looked physically ill. The inpatient director and chief psychiatrist, Melinda May, had her "angry face" on; it was steelier than her regular expression. Mack still had his arms crossed, looking skeptical. The detective had his mouth set firmly. Jemma supposed he had done it all and seen it all before.

Dr. Coulson had his hand to his mouth. "How did we not know this?"

"It's not like she told you," Mack pointed out.

Jemma whipped around.

Mack shrugged. "Well, she didn't."

"This correlates with the information we found at the house," Detective Campbell said. He had two grocery bags with him, which he placed on the table. "The big green binder in there is completely full of information on the daughter. Things she likes, things she doesn't, ways to prompt her to do things, medication, allergies – everything. There's a letter from her father in there. It's almost like he knew there would be some sort of situation where he would have to relinquish her care."

"Her father…" Jemma's fingers were itching to get at the binder. She needed to know more.

"He's our chief suspect in the murders," the detective said.

"But he protected her," Jemma said.

Detective Campbell shrugged. "That's very likely. But at the same time, he still murdered two people."

Jemma shook her head.

"The other files in there are on the custody battle. Mr. Johnson spent a great deal of time and money to get his daughter back, and a great deal of the same to protect her from her mother."

"Surely that woman isn't out of prison," Jemma said.

"She was set free by a jury," Detective Campbell said.

"You have to be kidding me," Dr. May said from the back of the room.

"Where is she now?" Dr. Coulson asked.

"We're looking for her," the detective answered.

"What's in the other bag?" Jemma wanted to know.

"It's some sort of computer," Detective Campbell said. "It's broken, but one of my officers thinks the girl may have been using it to communicate."

He pushed the bag towards Jemma. She leaned in, seeing absolute mechanical chaos.

"It was on the floor," the detective went on. "During whatever went down in the kitchen, it was knocked to the floor."

"We can fix it," Trip said, then turned to Jemma. "We can fix it, right?"

"I think I know someone," Jemma replied.

* * *

"Leo? It's Dr. Jemma. May I come in?"

The voice was soft, the accent Scottish. "Yes."

Jemma opened the door to the Green Room. Leo Fitz was in his usual position, seated at the desk in the corner of his room. He had a pad of paper, a felt-tip marker, and his collection of tiny monkey statues in front of him.

"How are you today, Leo?" Jemma asked.

Leo had his fingers pressed against his forehead. "Tired," he said shortly.

"I have a favor to ask of you," Jemma said.

She stood next to him, resisting the urge to put her hand on his shoulder. Leo Fitz had been on the unit for six months. He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder, the former coming after a car accident where he had been trapped underwater in his vehicle. He had also suffered mild brain damage in the accident, and often had difficulty finding the words he wanted in conversation. His frustration at the entire situation, coupled with severe depression, had led him to attempt suicide, which had brought him to Jemma.

They had been in treatment for three weeks when the clock in Jemma's office stopped working. It was a gift from her mother, and she hated to throw it away. She'd mentioned something about it in passing to Leo, and within five minutes he had the back of the clock off and his fingers in the workings. Five minutes later he'd fixed the mistake, changed the battery, and put the entire thing back together. He was a miracle worker.

"Ask," Leo said. Jemma knew that when he was feeling upset or useless, he tended to make his sentences as short as possible.

"We have a new patient," Jemma said. "She uses this computer to communicate, but it was broken. I can only imagine how scared she is to be away from her family, and it must be terrible not to be able to communicate on top of that. Would you be willing to take a look at it? See if it's something you can fix?"

Leo put down his felt-tip marker and held his hand out. He wouldn't look at Jemma.

Jemma stepped forward and handed him the plastic bag containing the remnants of Skye's computer. Leo took it and peered into the bag.

"Anger," he said.

"Anger? Are you angry?"

Leo shook his head. "Someone who was… who was angry… broke this."

"Yes," Jemma agreed.

"Will need… that is… _I_ will need… tools," Leo went on. He still didn't look at Jemma, but she knew he was making an effort. One of their "homework items" from therapy was for Leo to use full sentences, no matter how long it took him to get them out.

"I have some here," Jemma said, and she passed him a plastic box that Dr. Coulson had scrounged from Sitwell in facilities management. "I can leave this with you, but they can only be used in here, away from other patients, and I need to collect them at the end of the day."

"That's fair," Leo said. He reached into the bag and began taking out parts. "Also… duct tape. I will need duct tape. And a permanent marker."

"I'll see what I can do," Jemma told him. "Thank you, Leo. This is very important to me."

He muttered something as she left. She wasn't sure, but it sounded like _We all are._

* * *

Skye's eyes flew open and she screamed. For the third or fourth time in less than a day, she was in a different place. Her hands went out immediately, trying to figure out where she was. Her fingers found walls, close to her, and then a door, in front of her.

 _Closet. Closet. In a closet._

 _Safe. In a closet._

 _Headphones. Yes._

 _Dad? Dad?_

She was still panicked, though, and could feel herself losing control.

 _Too much. Too much. NO. NO!_

She screamed again, beating her head with her hands. Tears filled her eyes and her mouth tasted like pennies. Her chest burned and her hands and arms felt numb.

 _Can't breathe. Can't breathe._

"Skye." Her mother's voice was back, curling down her spine like a poisonous snake. "Skye, you should have stayed with me."

 _No! NO! NEVER going back!_

"Skye…"

 _HURT ME! YOU HURT ME!_

Skye screamed again, her hands pounding against her head. She was choking, unable to breathe, her mouth full of the penny-taste.

The closet doors flew open but Skye couldn't be bothered to look up. She had to make the voice stop.

"Skye, it's Jemma."

The careful, gentle voice filtered through the headphones and the head-slapping and Skye nearly stopped.

 _Can't. No, can't. Can't._

"I'm sorry that you're upset."

Skye choked on a sob and her fists slowed against her head.

"I want to help you."

 _Dad. Dad. I want to go with Dad._

 _Go home. I want to go home with Dad._

"I have a book about you," Jemma said, crouching down in front of the closet. She showed Skye a thick green binder. Her picture was on the front, and her father's careful, elegant handwriting underneath it spelled out her name.

 _Dad_.

Skye reached out and touched her father's handwriting.

"The book says you like to eat apples and pretzels and peanut-butter sandwiches. I have some here for you. Are you hungry?"

 _Apples. I like apples. Cut into slices. And pretzels. Thin pretzels. Little rod pretzels. Sandwiches cut in fours, crust left on._

Skye's fingers trailed over her father's writing. She wasn't sure how to tell the doctor in front of her that she was starving. That she wanted apples and pretzels and a sandwich.

Jemma reached into the pocket of her doctor's coat and took out two pictures. One was a smiley face; the other was a red "X."

"Can you use these to tell me?" Jemma asked.

 _Computer. Type. I want to type._

Skye's eyes darted between the two cards.

 _I am not a child._

 _I am hungry._

 _Look like a child. Think like a child. Can't speak like a baby._

 _Hungry._

She hesitated, feeling the doctor's eyes on her. Carefully, oh-so-carefully, she brought her hand up and touched the smiley face card.

 _Computer soon. Then no more cards._

 _Have no way of making that true. Computer is at home. At home. At home. Broken at home._

"Good," Jemma said. "Thank you for answering."

She took the cards away and stood up, leaving Skye with the thick binder.

Skye didn't want to look at it, but her father's writing was like a magnet. She flipped open the cover and began to read.

 _Daisy Skye Johnson-Zi is to be referred to by her middle name at all times. She is not to have any contact with her mother, Jiaying Zi. If Jiaying attempts to contact or take Skye, the proper authorities should be called immediately. DO NOT allow her mother to be alone with Skye or to take her anywhere._

 _Skye has autism. She does not speak, though she does scream, cry, and make repetitive noises. She engages in stereotypical autistic behaviors, including hand-flapping, rocking, and self-harm. She has behavioral outbursts that stem from her inability to communicate. During those outbursts she may pull her hair, slap or punch her head, bite her arms, or hit her head on a wall._

 _Skye_ _is not responsible for the scars on her skin_ _. Please do not address her as though she was involved in their creation._

The next few pages had other information on her, some that Dr. Jemma obviously hadn't seen.

 _Skye is extremely intelligent. Her IQ was tested at 175. She can read but is unable to write well due to a lack of fine motor control. She does complex math in her head. She was homeschooled after being released from captivity and did very well. She loves Legos, computers, coloring, and making bracelets._

It was strange to read about herself. All the things were true, but it seemed like the person on the page was a stranger.

 _Skye eats apples, pretzels, peanut-butter sandwiches, Cheerios, grilled cheese, and chocolate cupcakes. She will drink water, milk, and apple juice. She likes Sprite but doesn't get it often._

That was because her father was broke, not because he was concerned about the effects of sugar on her system. After living through five years of torture at the hands of her own mother, he would have gladly sold his kidneys to buy Sprite for her. Unfortunately – and she knew this was a joke, because he laughed when he said it – no one wanted to buy his kidneys.

 _Skye prefers to wear headphones whenever she is concerned about loud noises. She is easily overwhelmed in social situations, such as shopping malls or supermarkets, or anywhere that is new to her. She prefers instructions to be given slowly, in short sentences, and is generally compliant when the requests are possible for her to complete. Among people she knows, she is comfortable enough to remove the headphones. This is seen as a sign of trust._

How long had it taken her father to compile all this? _Why_ had he compiled all this?

"I have dinner for you," Jemma said, and Skye's head jerked up. She hadn't heard the doctor come back in.

Skye looked at the plate the doctor held in front of her. Apples in slices. Thin pretzel rods. A sandwich cut in fours. And a plastic cup of milk.

"Is it… is it all right?" Jemma asked, obviously thinking Skye was upset about the food.

Skye closed the book and put it aside. She leaned forward and stuck her hand into Jemma's coat pocket, pulling out the cards. She held up the smiley face card.

"Oh, good," Jemma said, sounding relieved.

 _Makes her feel good, I will use them._

 _Type. TYPE._

 _Soon. Don't know how. But soon._

Skye handed the cards back to Jemma and took the plate from the doctor. She crossed her legs and set the plate on her lap.

She moved her way around the plate. A bite of apple. Two pretzels. A bite of sandwich. A drink of milk. Repeat.

"We are going to take good care of you, Skye," Jemma said.

Skye looked up. The doctor was sitting on the bed in front of the closet, studying her with worried eyes.

"You are safe here."

Skye couldn't use the cards to tell her that couldn't possibly be true, since her mother was somewhere out there, two men were dead in the kitchen at home, her father was gone, her computer was broken, she was in a hospital, and, above all else, the cards were in Jemma's coat pocket, but instead she reached up and took off the headphones.

There were more ways to communicate than speaking and picture cards. She just hoped Jemma spoke her language.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hi guys, thanks for being patient with me. I know it's been some time since I updated this, and you have my apologies. A young woman I worked with, one of my students who was more like a sister to me, passed away unexpectedly on the 8th of August at the age of twenty-five. Over the past eight months I spent hundreds if not thousands of hours with her in the hospital. She went through hell and came back every time. She successfully made it home three times, but none of them for very long. I honestly thought we had more time, but I think everyone probably feels that way about their loved ones. She was very special to me and I miss her more than words can express. Today is her memorial service and I think I'm writing to try and help me process everything.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/favorites/follows. It makes me feel so pleased when I know you're enjoying a story.

Hopefully more will show up sooner.

Enjoy!

* * *

Leo watched the new girl at breakfast. They all ate their meals in the same common room together, the same room where they all attended group therapy and took part in "recreation time" and tried to participate in calisthenics in the morning. For the most part the other residents of the "whacky shack" (as Leo had heard one of the techs call it) ignored each other and tried to stay as quiet as possible. They'd all developed some sort of quiet respect for the room and the situations therein.

The new girl was breaking all of those rules.

Leo didn't like it.

She came in under duress, chirping and whimpering, being guided by the nice tech. Leo thought his name was Trip, but he had a tendency to forget a lot of things.

The girl screamed and yanked her arm away from Trip, then bolted across the room and dove under one of the tables.

"That's MY table."

Leo watched as John Garrett broke out of the breakfast line, dumping his tray on the floor in his haste, and strode towards "his" table. The bigger, stronger man grabbed the table and jerked it towards him. In a fast moment Leo saw the new girl's hands go up, as though to protect herself.

"Tell her that's MY table," Garrett ordered, looking at one of the techs. "It's MY table."

The nice tech – _Trip_ – moved towards Garrett. "I'm sure Skye didn't realize it was your table, Mr. Garrett."

Garrett hefted the table up and tried to throw it across the room. Leo was pleased to see that Garrett's reflexes were dulled by years of psych meds, leaving him slow and clumsy. He saw his opportunity.

He darted across the room, _swift monkey tricking stupid lion_ , reached down beneath the table, and carefully knelt down in front of the new girl. Her eyes were panicked and wild, hands clamped over her ears.

 _Terrified wildebeest_ , Leo thought. He reached out a hand. "C-c-come with m-m-me," he said. "Find you breakfast. No. I will help you find …"

He'd thought it was the perfect sentence, right up until the new girl screamed, seized his hand, yanked it towards him, and bit him.

 _Definitely not a wildebeest._

* * *

Jemma walked into chaos in the dayroom. John Garrett was shaking a table for no good reason. Trip was trying to comfort Leo, who was making angry Scottish noises while holding his hand – _his bleeding hand?!_ – covered in a white napkin.

Bobbi Morse, the recreational therapist, was kneeling in the corner, speaking softly to someone. Above it all Jemma could hear a sound she'd come to recognize –

 _Skye._

"What happened?" Jemma asked Trip.

"Brought her in here for breakfast. She sat under Garrett's table. Garrett got mad. Leo tried to help. Skye bit him," Trip said.

Though the situation was anything but positive, Jemma was pleased he was still using the short sentences she'd asked for the day before.

"And what's Bobbi doing?"

Trip shrugged.

"Okay," Jemma said. "Thank you for trying to help, Leo."

"She… she… b…b-b-b-bit my hand!" Leo protested.

"Yes. And Trip will take you to the clinic and get you a bandage."

Leo looked up at her, tears streaming down his face. "And a lolly?"

Jemma had to smile at that. "And a lolly."

He wasn't a child, none of them truly were, but Jemma knew that sometimes following stressful situations, it wasn't the worst thing in the world to have a bit of sugar. It was strange that Harry Potter and the cure for Dementors was part of Jemma's treatment plan, but she liked to think she was an unconventional doctor. Hence the big jar (plastic, of course) of lollipops on the counter near the nurses' station.

Jemma carefully approached Bobbi Morse. The tall, lithe woman was one of the best therapists Jemma worked with at Shield Memorial. There was something about Bobbi that inspired trust in others.

It didn't seem to be working on Skye, though. The autistic girl had her hands over her head, palms towards her face, flapping her fingers and looking up at the lights through them. Skye's breathing was quick and her expression troubled.

"Skye," Bobbi was saying as Jemma approached, "I'm sorry about what happened."

Skye gave a small _huh_ , but gave no other sign of recognition.

Jemma knelt down next to Bobbi. "Good morning, Skye."

The doctor slid the "yes" and "no" cards out of her coat pocket and handed them to Skye.

Skye breathed in sharply, grabbed the cards from Jemma, and tore them into shreds. Then she screamed at Jemma and Bobbi, stood up, and bolted from the dayroom.

Doctor and therapist turned to watch the dark-haired girl go. Jemma got to her feet and followed Skye out into the lobby.

* * *

 _Room too big. Too big. Too big._

Skye's eyes jerked around the front room. There were no spaces. The nurses behind their glass cubicle couldn't help. The nice boy with the kind eyes would never talk to her again, people don't talk to those who bite them. The nice tech was gone. The man with the table…

"Skye. Listen. Feel that?" The snake voice seized the back of her neck.

Pain like a red hot coal slammed into her shoulder and she screamed. _No, Mom. No._

 _Dad. Stop. Stop. Make it stop. STOP!_

Her thoughts jerked to a standstill and she froze in the hallway, her hands clenched at her side. Words were getting blurry, the room was spinning, and the ceiling was pushing down on her chest.

 _Dad. Dad. Dad, you PROMISED!_

She screamed and began beating her hands against her head. _Stop. Stop. Make it stop._

The pain blossomed into a fireball and she got down on the floor, crawling towards the wall. She was dizzy and confused and her shoulder boiled, spilling pain over into her body.

Someone touched her shoulder and Skye wailed in their direction, the pain jolting fire into her arm, her chest, her veins. Through her tears and confusion she saw Jemma, and she reached up with her free arm and grabbed Jemma, pleading in babbles for the doctor to make the pain stop.

"Skye," Jemma said. "Skye, you have to breathe."

The pain got bigger, like a vacuum sucking all of the air out of the room, and black spots danced at the edges of Skye's vision.

 _Make it stop. Make it stop. Doctor. Doctors heal. Doctors help._

"Not all of them," the snake whispered into her ear.

Skye couldn't breathe, she couldn't see; she was nothing but pain and anger and desperation. Her grip on Jemma's shoulder loosened and the world fell away in a blurry, Impressionist painting sort of way.

* * *

Detective Lincoln Campbell reentered the crime scene, looking around for his partner. "Lance? You still here?"

"In here," a voice responded from the living room.

Lincoln crossed into the other room, seeing his partner, Lance Hunter, moving around, gloves on his hands, looking at various pieces of evidence.

"Anything new?"

"Not a bloody thing." Lincoln was still unsure how Lance, a Brit through and through, had made it onto an American police force, but he wasn't complaining. Lance was dedicated and had a wicked sense of humor, which made him a great partner. "Tell me you've got a lead."

"Got the names of our two victims," Lincoln said, holding up his file. "That help?"

"It's something," Lance said. "Be even better if you've got the reason they're victims. Or better yet, that Cal guy's head on a stick."

"Hey, hey, easy now," Lincoln said. "We don't know if he's guilty."

Lance rolled his eyes.

"His daughter needs him," Lincoln said. "It's in our best interest to find him."

"And jail him."

"If he's guilty."

"Let's move on, mate," Lance suggested. "Tell me about the vics."

"Yeah." Lincoln opened his file. "Vic number one is Robert Gonzales. Fifty-seven years old, no priors. Address in Bakersfield Heights. Wife Camilla. Worked as a high-level executive at a medical equipment supplier."

"A little old for a B&E."

"I don't think this was a B&E," Lincoln said, looking up.

"Thought that was what we were going with."

"That changed after all this," Lincoln said, and handed Lance the file full of information on Cal's daughter.

Lance let out a whistle as he paged through it. "Bloody hell. What kind of sick bastards do this to a _child?"_

"She's a broken doll," Lincoln agreed.

"We need to find her dad," Lance said.

Lincoln rolled his eyes, but Lance was still looking down at the folder.

"Vic number two is Tomas Calderon. Thirty-eight, again no priors. Divorced, no kids, not in contact with his ex-wife. Lived out by Glass Lake, in that fancy subdivision… uh… Winddancer Park. Owned a firm devoted to creating and implementing high-tech security systems."

"What were they doing _here?"_ Lance looked up.

Lincoln had to agree. The house Cal Johnson and his daughter had shared wasn't rundown, and it wasn't in a terrible neighborhood, but it could probably be best described as "comfortably shabby." Everything was neat and tidy; some of it looked secondhand, but the things in the house that clearly belonged to the autistic daughter were high-quality and well-maintained.

"We got any other background on these guys?" Lance asked Lincoln. "Like, what they might be doing here? How they're connected? What they wanted from a guy who does medical transcribing from home?"

Lincoln shook his head. "I've got the experts back at the station running them through all the programs. Whatever they were doing here, we'll find it."

"You meet the daughter?"

"No. Only through that information."

"Hmm." Lance put his head back down, burying himself in the information.

Lincoln moved down the short hallway to look in the bedrooms, snapping on a pair of gloves. He wasn't sure if there was any other evidence the crime scene folks had missed, but he needed to see for himself. And there was something about standing in the scene and the surrounding rooms that helped Lincoln focus on the scenario, to open up his mind to all the possibilities.

The father's bedroom was typical male, at least in Lincoln's experience. Blue, spartan furnishings, dark wood. Bed neatly made. Slippers perfectly matched at the side of the bed. A glass of water on the bedside table. Next to that, a mystery novel, well-worn.

Nothing to suggest the man who lived in this room was anything more than a father, a quiet and comfortable man who liked a quiet life.

Lincoln sighed and crossed the hall to the daughter's room. It was brighter in there, the walls a light lavender. On the wall by the door was a series of pictograms in a long vertical line on a purple piece of tag board that had been divided into two sections. The left side said "To Do" (the pictogram a piece of paper with scribbly lines on it) and the right said "Done" (the pictogram a person, seen from the neck down, showing hands in two different positions). Lincoln supposed that must be sign language, and he was impressed that a simple pictogram could express so much. At the top was a picture of the daughter – _Skye_ , he reminded himself – and the legend "Today." Each pictogram was attached to the board with Velcro, so that each task could be moved as it was completed.

There were a few cards under the "Done" heading; Lincoln figured they must have been the tasks completed on the day of the murders, before everything went to hell. Bathroom. Wash Face. Clothes On. Brush Hair. Fold Pajamas. Make Bed. Eat Breakfast. Brush Teeth.

The day went on and Lincoln had a hard time imagining a mind so fragmented that a rigorous schedule like that was helpful. On a whim, he pulled the schedule from the wall, taking an envelope packed with other pictograms that had been stored in a basket hung just above the schedule as well.

 _Poor kid needs some stability_.

* * *

"What just happened?" Dr. Coulson demanded as he burst into the treatment room.

Trip and Mack had managed to lift Skye to a gurney and bring her into the room. Even in her unconscious state Skye writhed back and forth, one hand clawing frantically at the left side of her shirt.

"She's been het up since this morning," Mack answered.

Jemma glared at him.

"She has been agitated, sir," Trip said.

"Does she need a sedative?" Dr. Coulson asked.

Jemma shook her head. "It's been proven that sedatives can often have the opposite effect on patients with autism. I don't want to agitate her any further."

"Hey, guys, not to…" Trip trailed off, and Jemma and Dr. Coulson turned to look at him. "What is this?"

Skye's terrified clawing had finally slowed, but she'd managed to yank down the collar of her shirt, exposing red claw marks and something else, something pulsing just below the surface of her skin.

Jemma leaned in, hesitantly putting her fingers to the raised bump. It was the size of a walnut, pulsing hot, hard under Jemma's gentle touch. "It feels like a subcutaneous port for intravenous fluids. Like the ones they use for administering outpatient chemotherapy," she said after a few seconds. "But there was nothing in her notebook…"

An electrical charge rocketed up her arm and she jerked back from the gurney. "What on earth…?"

"What is it?" Dr. Coulson leaned over.

"It… it shocked me," Jemma replied, her heart pounding.

Dr. Coulson moved in, taking Skye's wrist in his. "God, she's cold."

"Except for right here," Jemma said, indicating the raised bump. "It's hot."

"Her pulse is very low, and…"

Dr. Coulson's words were cut off as Skye let out a scream, her back arching, and sat up, her eyes wild. She reached out for Jemma, babbling, and then shoved herself up and off the gurney, tumbling to the floor. Skye stood, her hands out as though she was drunk or on a tilting ship, searching the room as syllables tripped from her mouth.

"Skye? What are you looking for?" Jemma asked hesitantly. "What do you need?"

Skye brought her hands up and slapped her head, hard. Her vocalizations increased in speed and volume, and she frantically looked around the room.

 _Have to make them understand. Board. Board._

 _Computer. Type. Type._

 _NO!_

She slapped her head again. There had to be a way to make them see. To understand.

At last her eyes lit upon the whiteboard in the corner, used for team meetings. She bolted over to it and grabbed one of the markers. It took her shaking hands a long few seconds to get the cap off the marker, but eventually it was freed and she tossed it to the floor.

Her hands were wobbly as she brought them up to the board.

 _Not good. Not good._

 _Best we have._

 _Type?_

 _NO!_

She pressed her hand to the board and began moving it, the marker trailing streaks of bright blue scribbles. Skye forced her hand to slow down.

 _Like Dad says. Practice._

 _Stable. Stable._

 _Make the letters. Each letter._

D.O.N.T.T.O.U.C.H.

M.O.M.S.A.Y.S.

She turned to Jemma and Dr. Coulson and the good tech and the bad tech and tilted her head, the marker still bobbing in her hand.

 _They understand? They understand?_

"Skye, no one understands." Her mother's snake voice wrapped around her neck like a scarf she didn't want to wear.

The thought pulsed through her from her shoulder to her belly and she dropped the marker to the floor.

Jemma stepped forward and took Skye's hand in hers. "Okay. We won't touch it."

 _They understand. They understand._

 _Sleep now. Sleep now._

Skye smiled at Jemma, her first real smile in what seemed like years, and climbed back up on the gurney. Like a docile child she curled herself into a ball, put her hands over her ears, and slipped away into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** More MCU characters are going to show up in the future, so here's the introduction of one and the hint of another. And plot and stuff. You know the drill.

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites. I appreciate all the support.

Enjoy!

* * *

"She told us not to touch it," Trip said to Jemma.

"We're not going to _touch_ it," Jemma answered. "We're going to… scan it. Find out more about it. And draw her blood, run some more tests."

Trip slowed, slowing the gurney along with him. "You don't think this is going too far?"

Jemma shifted the charts in her arms. "She has a strange implant in her that produced an electrical shock. We have no idea why it's there, what it's doing, or what it might do in the future. Or if it's changed something in her system. If we want to keep her safe, we need to know as much as possible about her."

Trip looked down at Skye's motionless form on the gurney. After they'd ascertained that Skye was fully asleep, Dr. Coulson had administered a sedative and Jemma had called down to Shield Memorial's imaging labs to let them know they were bringing a psych patient down. As the labs readied, Dr. Coulson, Dr. May, and Jemma had held a quick conference, leading them to the plan they were in the middle of enacting.

"We can't keep her safe," Trip said quietly.

Jemma tilted her head and looked at him. "What's your gut telling you?"

Trip's gut was famous on the eighth floor. He often had feelings that led him to make decisions that averted crises. He once felt called to take a patient from the Lavender Room out into the hallway for a walk; not five minutes later a piece of construction equipment fell through the window. Trip had been on his way out of work after a shift when he turned around and went into the dayroom, where he'd arrived just in time to stop a young man from using a stolen razor blade to kill himself.

Needless to say, Jemma trusted Trip's gut. Everyone did, except for Mack, but Mack didn't trust most things he couldn't explain or understand.

"She's part of something bigger," Trip said, gently reaching down to brush hair away from Skye's face. "This thing in her shoulder… it might have been the first thing we're going to find but it's not going to be the last."

"You think she's a robot?"

"I think…" Trip shook his head. "I don't think at this point. But I went back and read all of the news stories and the police reports that came out of the lab she was rescued from, and those people were up to some sick stuff."

He rubbed his forehead. "They did something to her. Something we're not gonna like."

Jemma readjusted the charts again. "I've been over her medical records, Trip. She was diagnosed with autism at the age of four, after her family moved here from China. She's been this way since she was little – it's not anything new."

"Whatever they put in her is," Trip replied. "New enough that the test results aren't going to give us the kind of answers you're looking for."

"I guess we'll have to decide after we see the results," Jemma said. "Now, let's get this show on the road. MacNally and Rand don't like latecomers, and if we wait any longer, we'll end up behind a geriatric patient and time will come to a standstill."

"It always does," Trip said, and with his usual easygoing smile, he resumed pushing the gurney.

* * *

 _The test results aren't going to give us the kind of answers you're looking for_.

"Or any answers," Jemma muttered as she flipped through the files.

The device in Skye's shoulder was made of a type of metal that Jemma had never heard of. It had a power source the scans couldn't identify. Its purpose was unknown. Its effects were unknown. And whoever had implanted it into the girl had made sure it was intricately woven into her nervous system.

In short, it was no less a mystery than it had been before the tests, and possibly even more mystifying was that Trip's gut had been right again. The scans revealed two other devices of unknown origin and composition, one located at the base of Skye's spine, and the other directly at the base of her skull.

 _Those people were up to some sick stuff_.

"Couldn't agree more, Trip." Jemma rubbed her eyes. Skye was even more of a mystery now, and Jemma wasn't the kind of detective who could figure these things out.

* * *

Skye woke in the closet, feeling safe and swaddled, and she smiled.

Then she realized that the pain in her shoulder had stopped, but the low hum in the base of her skull had started again. It was like radio white noise, as though some invisible hand was twisting the dial across all the spectrums, then running that twisty hissing thrumming like a ribbon through the _whatever-it-was_ that had been implanted where her head and her neck met.

At first it had hurt, but shortly thereafter Skye had realized the easiest way to get the pain to stop was to do whatever that white noise wanted her to do.

She pushed herself out of the nest of blankets and pillows, pushed the closet doors open, and tumbled out. The rest of the psych ward was quiet around her; she didn't have any idea what time it was, but it was significantly later than when she'd fallen asleep. As she got to her feet, she could see that it was dark outside.

The hum lowered in intensity as she staggered the first few steps to the door. Finally getting her feet under her, she moved out into the hallway.

Skye missed her computer. It was always easier to explain things to her father when she could type, when she could tell him what was happening. She didn't like the way he looked at her, as though his entire world was crumbling into pieces, when she told him she needed to _go right now_ to make the humming stop.

Before she got the computer, the only way to make the humming stop was to beat her head against the floor. It still worked now, but she preferred just to go figure it out, since the head-beating had only resulted in unpleasant consequences, like migraines. And a helmet, prescribed by the county's home-bound teacher.

In the hallway she took a few cautious steps to one side, then the next, following the hum as it lowered the pressure against her skull.

The hallway was dimly lit, but it felt cozy rather than distressing. Between the hum and the cozy lights, Skye was feeling drowsy, but she knew she couldn't stop, or the humming would push up her skull and squeeze her into unconsciousness, and the things that happened after that were _never_ good.

Each room went by in a blur of color. _Blue, green, yellow, lavender._

 _Red._

The humming decreased as Skye stopped in front of the red room's door. She tilted her head, making sure she had it right.

The white noise straightened out into blips of words, pulsing at the base of Skye's skull.

 _Girl in there – wssshhhhh – missing someone – wshhhhh – help tell her – wsssshhhhh – tell her tell her now now now._

Without any further hesitation Skye stepped forward into the red room, waiting for the humming to stop, for her mission to become clearer.

It was only when she met the dark eyes of the girl on the bed that she realized she had no way of communicating her message.

 _Shit_.

 _Computer. Computer. Need computer._

 _Dad. Dad?_

 _Need to type._

She froze.

The girl on the bed looked at her for a long moment. Then she brought her hand up and beckoned Skye into the room.

The pressure in Skye's head eased even further as the humming stopped. She curled up on the bed next to the dark-haired girl, and she didn't flinch away when a gentle hand came down, stroking her head carefully.

For a time Skye floated in the room with the red walls, wrapping around her like a caress. The hand on her head moved rhythmically, always gently, a kind of touch Skye hadn't known she was missing.

She wasn't sure how much time passed before the girl spoke.

"Have you seen… my brother?"

The voice was lower-pitched than Skye had imagined, the words spoken slowly as though the girl was drugged, the sentence twisty with an Eastern European accent.

"I am… looking for…"

 _Wssshhhhh_.

The white noise blared in Skye's head and she arched her head back, trying to get away from the sudden pressure.

"Is okay, darling," the girl said.

She stroked Skye's head. "Be over soon."

Skye closed her eyes and waited.

"I am… I am Wanda," the girl went on, still speaking carefully. "You are Skye."

 _You are Skye_.

Skye liked the way she said that so confidently. In this place where everything was new or confusing or painful or all three, there were some things she just needed to hear.

"Have you seen… my brother?"

 _No_.

As though she'd spoken aloud, Wanda nodded. "I have thought so. He is… he is gone?"

 _The white noise says so_.

Pain flared in the back of Skye's skull and she tried to pull away from it, whimpering.

"Is okay… is okay, beautiful. I am… I am… I am here."

Skye reached up and clenched her hands around Wanda's arms.

 _Make it stop. Make it stop._

 _Too loud. Too loud._

 _Room too big. Room too big._

 _Can't breathe. Can't breathe._

 _FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT –_

She didn't realize she was screaming until Wanda's hands moved to her face. "Shh, beautiful. I hear. I hear. Shhh, shh…"

The pain pinched in deeper, but Skye couldn't take a breath to continue screaming.

"Shhh, shh, beautiful."

Wanda brought one hand up and resumed stroking her hair. A few seconds later, she began singing, her voice light and sweet. Skye couldn't understand the words; they were in some foreign language, but she understood their meaning all the same.

 _See the lovely birch in the meadow…_

The fist of pain punching the back of Skye's skull dissipated slowly, but not without consequences – she found herself drifting, entwined with the sounds of Wanda's lullaby.

Far in the background she could hear her mother's voice, cruel and cold and sarcastic, but the white noise drowned it out, and for that Skye was grateful.

The hand on her head didn't stop its gentle ministrations, so when the other hand came down to carefully trace some of the words carved into her skin, Skye didn't flinch away. Wanda's fingers on her scars felt different than everyone else's.

Like she wasn't a mute autistic freak stuck in a body that spoke louder than she ever could.

Like maybe she'd been beautiful once.

Like maybe she could be beautiful again.

* * *

Jemma sighed and closed the file. "I can't work on this any longer," she said to Dr. May, who was sitting across from her.

"Any further leads?"

"Not a one." Jemma shook her head.

"I've got a call in to a colleague who specializes in medical engineering," Dr. May said. "If these devices were made by anyone in the industry, he'll know what they are and how we can best help Skye."

Jemma gave an affirmative sort of noise and rubbed her eyes. "When they brought her in, I thought she was just an autistic young woman who had witnessed terrible trauma."

"No one's ever as simple as that," Dr. May said.

"We are adrift in a sea that no one's ever charted before," Jemma said. "We don't have any way to make a map, no compass to guide us."

Dr. May leaned back in the chair. "We have a compass."

Jemma raised her head.

Dr. May was smiling, something rare for her. "She's about yea high" – she raises her hand a bit above her shoulders – "skinny, dark-haired, stubborn, courageous…"

 _I would have let her lead_.

Jemma's words on the first day of Skye's stay came flooding back to her. "You're right."

Dr. May nodded. "We all know our patients are bigger than their bodies, than whatever's tying down their minds. We have to be willing to work a little harder for the girl, but think about how much extra work she's doing to even stay upright in a new place, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and voices and sights and smells and tastes."

 _Tastes_.

"Oh, God, I don't think she got any dinner," Jemma said, standing up hurriedly. "And she only eats certain things, and…"

Dr. May stood up as well. "Slow down a bit there, Dr. Simmons. I asked Bobbi to call in a few favors with food services, and they were able to send us up some greater quantities of the things Skye will eat. Dr. Coulson and I put them in a cabinet in the patients' kitchen."

"Oh. Thank you," Jemma said.

"We all want to be able to help Skye as much as we can," Dr. May said. "Please let me know if there's anything I or any other member of our treatment team can do to pitch in."

Jemma nodded. "I will," she said softly.

When Dr. May had gone, Jemma made her way down the hallway to the patients' kitchen, thinking she could at least bring Skye some pretzels and an apple.

She ground to a halt outside the Red Room. She could hear a voice – singing, it sounded like.

 _It can't be._

And yet the lilting syllables were foreign and exotic. There was only one person who could be making those kinds of sounds.

Wanda Maximoff was a refugee from some god-forsaken Eastern European country that had been war-torn nearly as long as it had been in existence. Her parents had scrimped and saved to send Wanda and her twin brother to stay with relatives in America, relatives who had taken the money and left the twins destitute and barely able to speak English. They had been living in an abandoned house when two other homeless youths broke in. There had been a scuffle and somehow Wanda's brother had been shot.

He was still alive, but comatose in Shield Memorial's long-term ventilator-dependent ward. Wanda hadn't seen him since the events in the house, since nearly immediately afterwards, she had experienced a terrifying psychotic break. She had gone after the two attackers, knocking one unconscious and hurting another so badly that the amputation of two fingers was necessary.

She remembered none of it.

And she hadn't spoken, or made any noises, since she'd been brought to the eighth floor.

The song slowed, and then there was silence. Jemma found that she was holding her breath, but she didn't have to wait for long.

"Sleep here… beautiful. Stay safe. None of the… bad dreams now, yes?"

Wanda's voice sounded beautiful. Jemma wanted to rush into the room and hug the Sokovian girl, but she knew that would ruin all of it, and possibly frighten Wanda into silence again.

"Have you seen... my brother? I am looking… for my brother. He is… my twin brother. I want… my brother."

Silence fell again, and then Wanda spoke. "Beautiful girl… very quiet girl… my brother? Yes? We find?"

Another few beats of silence.

"I see your… skin words… is okay. You are still beautiful. Beautiful girl."

Jemma froze again. Wanda wasn't just talking – she was talking _to_ someone. Specifically, _to_ Skye.

 _She's part of something bigger_ , Trip had said.

His gut had been right again.

But now Jemma was terrified of what the ramifications of that "something bigger" might be.

Something was telling her it wasn't all going to be positive, like hearing Wanda's voice.

Like the strange devices in Skye's body, that something bigger was shady, and mysterious, and almost certainly _wrong_.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Intrigue! Flashbacks! More MCU characters! Going to eat dinner (now that I'm done with this chapter)!

Thanks to everyone reads/reviews/follows/favorites. You're awesome.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Melinda May, aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"Tony Stark, always kissing ass."

"Oh, no ma'am. Far too early for that."

"I agree." The other man who'd entered the office stuck out his hand. "It's good to see you again, Dr. May."

"And you as well, Dr. Banner."

"I hear you've got an interesting case for us," Bruce Banner said.

"Yeah – an autistic robot girl," Tony said from the corner, where he was juggling three of the decorative spheres Melinda had in a glass jar by the window.

"Put those down before you hurt yourself," Melinda said half-heartedly. She looked up at Bruce. "He's going to do it anyway, so…"

" _Ow_ ," came softly from the other side of the room as Tony whacked himself in the nose with the largest of the spheres.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I think what Tony meant to say was, a young woman with autism who recently experienced significant trauma and has been discovered to have several devices of unknown origin and purpose inserted in her body."

"By her mother and associates of her mother," Melinda agreed. "They claim they were doing medical research, but apparently their definition of that is 'torturing disabled children.'"

She passed Tony the file on the strange machines found in Skye's body, and handed a file to Bruce detailing Skye's medical condition. "Coulson and I are hoping you'd both take a look at her. She's a puzzle for sure."

There was a knock at the office door.

"Come in," Melinda called.

Jemma entered, and stopped short at the sight of the two visitors. "Oh, I'm sorry. I can come back later."

"It's fine, Jemma," Melinda said. "These are my two consultants, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner. They're here to see Skye."

"I'm here to see you about Skye as well," Jemma said. "Uh, last night I was going to get her something to eat, and I heard someone talking…"

"She was speaking?" Melinda furrowed her brow.

Jemma shook her head. "No, although the actual explanation is just as exciting."

Melinda leaned back in her chair.

"It was Wanda. Wanda was talking to her."

Melinda's eyes widened slightly, which Jemma knew was an expression of extreme surprise. "What? Are you sure?"

Jemma nodded. "I know! It was… it was unbelievable."

"That's incredible."

"That's _Skye,"_ Jemma said proudly. "She's… there's something special about her."

Then her face fell. "Um, but, getting back to the reason I came in… she's missing. They both are."

Melinda grabbed her phone and punched in a four-digit code. "Shield Memorial initiate lockdown protocol 8-2-A. Repeat initiate full lockdown, protocol 8-2-A."

"Where would they go?" Jemma wailed. "Skye wants to be in as small a space as possible, and Wanda…"

She threw up her hands.

"We'll figure it out," Melinda said. "Let's go."

* * *

Skye felt off. The light hurt her eyes, and she swayed as she followed Wanda down the hallway. Dressed in their loose hospital-issued pajamas, they definitely looked like they weren't supposed to be there. Everything was blurry and she walked with her hands out, trying to use her fingertips to figure out how the world had changed so quickly.

 _Dad? Head. Dad?_

Skye pressed her fingers against the back of her head, where she knew the mysterious white-noise machine was located. She nearly sank to her knees with pain. Something was wrong.

"He's… he is…" Wanda stopped in front of a room.

Skye didn't like it here. There were too many people who were going to die. Too many beeping machines and clicking machines and wires and tubes and –

 _Wake up wake up wake up wake up_

 _Before they do the same do the same do the same do the same_

 _To you to you to you to you_

 _Done it once they'll do it again_

Skye pressed her hands against her ears and choked out something that sounded like a wail.

 _Too loud. Too loud. Too loud._

 _They're too loud. They're all too loud._

Wanda took a few steps back towards her and reached out her hand. "Is all right. I hear. Shh."

Skye was somewhere else, though, her head ringing. She felt Wanda's fingers carefully release as the older girl murmured, "Pietro."

Wanda entered the room in front of her, and Skye could tell she'd been forgotten. It wasn't the worst thing.

Then she heard the PA system: "Shield Memorial initiate lockdown protocol 8-2-A. Repeat initiate full lockdown protocol 8-2-A."

 _For us. They'll take us back. Take us back._

 _Hurt us. No. Hurt us._

Skye dropped to the floor, fingers twined in her hair. The white noise flooded her head, but she was too tired to follow it.

 _Make it stop. Make it stop. Have to make it stop_.

No matter how hard she pulled on her hair the white noise wouldn't let up.

 _Want you to –ssshhhh – get up find – ssshhhh – don't you – shsshhhshhh – to be ignored – sshhhhh – stupid whore_.

She slapped her head, over and over.

 _You're not strong enough – shhhwhshhh – ignore us – shhhsshhh – mother doesn't – shhshshh – how could she ever love you?_

Skye whimpered. The tile floor under her felt cold and suddenly it was as though she was out of her body. She was somewhere else, someone else, and she was seeing…

* * *

… her house. The day it happened. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her computer under her fingers, her head tilted, watching her father. He stood at the kitchen sink, getting ready to prepare breakfast, but first he was trying to make her laugh by juggling oranges.

"Oh ma darlin', oh ma darlin', oh ma darlin', these aren't oranges they're clementines," he sang in his throaty, terrible-voiced way. He had a goofy smile on his face. "You sure you won't try an orange – oh, sorry, a clementine – this morning?"

"Heh," Skye said vocally, moving her fingers to her computer to type; she _had_ to tell him she wouldn't put any citrus fruit in her mouth. As it turned out, she didn't need to say anything – he knew her far too well.

"I know, little flower," her father said. "You're not into citrus fruits. They're an acquired taste… and apparently, a not-autistic taste."

He did one more round of juggling with the oranges. "I'll get you the Cheerios."

"I can get them Dad" the computer informed him, and Skye slid from her seat.

Her father began peeling the clementines so he could separate them into slices. Skye stood in front of the pantry, looking up at the neatly-organized food items within. No matter how hard she looked she couldn't find the yellow box with her favorite cereal inside.

She turned to her father. "Hmm?" she asked him, tapping his box of off-brand granola and the empty space beside it where the Cheerios should have been.

"Oh, you know what?" her father asked, putting the fruit slices into his bowl of yogurt and granola, "I bought another box at the store the other day, but I think it ended up in the basement with the paper towels and the laundry soap."

The phone rang and he moved to answer it. Just before he picked up the receiver, he said, "If you wait until I'm done with whatever flavor of telemarketer or bill collector's calling down the line at the moment, I'll get them for you."

He picked up the handset. "Hello?"

She was bored nearly instantly. Bored, and hungry. And irritated.

On the schedule it was very clear – "Make Bed. Eat Breakfast. Brush Teeth." She couldn't do one without the others, and she'd made her bed. Now it was breakfast time.

The phone conversation flowed over her and around her like bubbles in a stream; she didn't understand what her father was saying – all of her attention was focused on a bowl of Cheerios.

Skye sighed and closed the pantry door. She slipped out of the kitchen and walked down the hall to the basement door. She tapped the doorknob, opened the door, and turned on the light. Her feet felt weird on the wooden planks of the basement floor, and then even stranger when she made it to the bottom of the stairs, where the floor was cement.

It wasn't that she didn't _like_ the basement. She just didn't spend much time there anymore.

(Also, there was that thing where it kinda resembled one of the labs where she'd been… _taken_ , and those kinds of places were the kinds of places that made Skye physically ill.)

She left her fingers on the stair railing as long as she could, moving only as far as her arm length would allow. She didn't see the Cheerios.

Eventually she found the courage to take a few steps away from the railing and take a better look around the basement. The Cheerios were in a bag with the laundry soap, just as her father had indicated. Skye grabbed them happily and headed back up the stairs, grateful to be away from the creepy dark space.

As she reached the top of the stairs a door slammed and Skye jumped. Then she heard yelling. A lot of yelling, way too loud for her to understand or even process the words. Everything slowed down around her and her arms went numb. The Cheerios fell to the floor.

The basement door flew open and her father was standing there. He looked terrified and there was blood on his face.

Skye let out a scream as her father scooped her up and ran her down the hallway to his room. He opened the closet door and pushed her in.

Skye whimpered up at him, trying to get her mouth to form at least a syllable or two.

"I'll be right back," her father said. "Don't move. Be quiet."

He closed the closet door and disappeared.

For six minutes thirty-eight seconds Skye didn't move. Everything around her went quiet.

Then she felt sick. Her stomach sloshed and she needed to throw up.

Her father had said he'd come back. But he hadn't. And if he _was_ there, he'd let her go to the bathroom.

Skye pushed the closet door open and crawled across the floor to the hallway, across the hallway and into the bathroom, retching and sobbing the entire time. She made it to the bathroom just in time and threw up in the trash can.

 _Too much. Too much._

After that things came in blinks of blurry time-skips. She remembered being on the floor. Then on her feet. Then back on the floor. Then in the hallway looking up at her school pictures. Then hearing yelling from the kitchen. Then realizing she didn't have her computer and deciding to go look for it.

Then seeing a man in the kitchen standing over her father, yelling. The bad man had a gun. Her father did not. Her father was still bleeding.

Skye bit her fingers. She wanted her computer.

She took another step into the kitchen. There was another bad man on the floor back the back door and he was not moving.

Breathing started to hurt and Skye heard herself start to babble, long random strings of syllables that meant nothing and yet tried to say everything.

When she started making noise the man with the gun turned around. "Oh," he said, his voice one of sly satisfaction. "Daisy."

 _I AM NOT DAISY_.

Skye looked at her father. His nose was bleeding.

"Daisy, that's it, come here," the man with the gun said.

 _I AM NOT DAISY EVER HE SAID I DON'T HAVE TO BE DAISY EVER EVER EVER AGAIN._

Skye looked over at the kitchen table. Her computer was right there. And so was the knife her father had been using to cut up apple slices for her breakfast.

"Leave her alone," her father said, his voice gravelly. "This isn't about her."

"Oh, Cal," the man with the gun said. "It's always been about her."

 _I AM NOT DAISY HAVE TO SHOW HIM I AM NOT DAISY._

 _I AM SORRY I AM SO SORRY_.

The man with the gun turned further towards her father and Skye edged her way to the kitchen table.

A blink and the knife was in her hand.

Another blink and she was behind the man.

Another blink and she was driving the knife into the man, over and over, sobbing and screaming.

Then her father moving towards her, and Skye backing away, shaking. The sticky knife fell to the floor and Skye screamed, beating her head with her hands.

 _I had to he was hurting you. I had to make him go away._

 _He said I was Daisy I am not Daisy I am SO SORRY_.

Her father wrapped his arms around her. "It's going to be all right," he whispered. "Go hide in your closet. I'm going to get help."

Somehow Skye made it back into her closet. Somehow she put her headphones and her sunglasses on. Somehow she let the darkness and the quiet pull her into a cocoon, a place she could forget about what she'd just done.

* * *

"Skye," a gentle voice said. "Skye, can you open your eyes?"

 _I am not Daisy_.

Skye tried to figure out where she was. The floor under her was cool and smooth.

"Skye, I think it's over. You had a seizure," the gentle voice continued. "Can you open your eyes, please?"

Skye opened her eyes and saw Dr. Jemma kneeling next to her. She tasted blood in her mouth and she felt pain encircling her head and bright spears of pain running down her face.

"You're safe, sweetheart," Jemma said softly, and she stroked Skye's hair.

Skye sat up slowly, groggily, and reached out for Jemma. Her fingers were sticky with blood and as she reached up to touch her face, she realized that was where it was coming from. Long scratches, as though she'd been trying to take her face off.

Then she saw what Jemma was holding. Her computer.

Skye grabbed for it, feeling her breathing get more constricted. She was a ball of nothing, a blunted half-girl paper doll and she had to break out.

With her bloody fingers she turned it on, impatiently tapping the screen as she waited for it to power up. The typing window opened and she began pressing keys.

"I killed the man," the computer spoke. "I killed the man. I am so sorry I am not Daisy Daisy killed the man."

Skye couldn't look at Jemma after she typed that. She stared up at the ceiling tiles, flicking her fingers up towards her mouth.

"Oh, Skye," Jemma whispered.

 _Now she'll draw away. She won't want me anymore._

 _She knows I'm a monster_.

"Thank you for telling me," Jemma said gently. "Will you come with me? I want to get you cleaned up and make sure you're safe."

"Oh," Skye vocalized, and she reached out for Jemma.

Though she had been expecting the doctor to pull away, or for an orderly to jab her with a syringe or for a nurse to throw her into restraints, none of those things happened. Instead Jemma leaned in, wrapping her arms around Skye. She smelled like clean clothes and lavender, and Skye felt her body relax.

It was one of the only hugs Skye hadn't wanted to pull away from.

 _Still a monster_.

But in that moment, it didn't seem to matter so much.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** So, halfway through this chapter I stopped writing and was like, "Yeah, I'm done." And then I came back and wrote at least 1200 more words. I'm not a quitter, I guess is what that means.

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites.

If you'd like to watch me get slammed with tumblr prompts I haven't had time to write yet (gee, who knew I was so popular? it certainly wasn't me but now I have fifteen-ish prompts and it's very flattering and overwhelming all at once), please visit me on tumblr. Same username.

Enjoy!

* * *

Cal knocked on the door of apartment 9. The building was shabby and forgettable, and he didn't know exactly why his contact would want to protect her life this way.

At least, he hadn't, until he'd watched his autistic daughter stab a man to protect him.

"Who is it?" The door remains steadfastly closed.

"It's Cal."

"What do you want?"

"I need help."

"What else is new?"

Cal sighed. "That's fine. I'll go somewhere else."

He picked up his duffel bag and walked a few short steps down the hallway. He hadn't gotten far when he heard the locks slide back and the door open just a crack.

"This is about Daisy, isn't it?"

Cal turned around. "That isn't her name anymore. You know that."

"I know a lot of things. And if I know anything, it's that she's in trouble because of something they did to her when she was Daisy."

The door opened a bit wider. "And if that's true, which it is, you're going to need more help than just me."

Cal sighed. "I know."

"You're going to have to get her back first. Might as well make a deal with the devil."

"You've met Jiaying. I already _made_ a deal with the devil."

* * *

"She killed a man," Jemma said to May and Coulson in the conference room. Somehow Jemma, Trip, and Mack had gotten Skye back up to the eighth floor. Bobbi was sitting with Wanda on the fifth floor at Pietro's bedside. The Sokovian girl still hadn't spoken to anyone but Skye, but when they'd tried to remove her from her brother's room, she had screamed at anyone who came near her, long enough and loud enough that Jemma was worried for her health and had eventually relented.

"She _told_ you she killed a man," May said, pointing to Skye's speech device. "And she said 'Daisy' killed a man."

Coulson flipped through the large notebook that had come with Skye. "There's nothing in here about…"

"About her murderous tendencies?" Jemma asked, shaking her head. "I don't know what happened, and I don't know if _she_ fully understands. I don't even know if what she said is true, or if the events are skewed in her head."

"The detectives are fairly certain it was her father who was responsible," Coulson said.

"That's what they _thought_. If she…" Jemma put her head in her hands. "If she did it, wouldn't it make sense for her father to try to protect her?"

"Well, the detectives will need to question her now," May said.

"Absolutely not," Jemma snapped, jerking her head up to glare at May. "She is too fragile."

Coulson and May shared a glance.

"You saw what she did to herself," Jemma went on. "The nurses reported she had a seizure, we still have no idea what the devices in her body are doing, and she dissociated far enough to tear her own skin off her face. To put her in front of detectives after all that… no. No. I won't let you. It's not medically advisable."

Coulson closed the notebook. "Let's wait until after she's had some time to rest, and we'll discuss it again."

"If you ask me, she's gone far beyond a psych case," May said as Coulson stood. "We're talking about something else entirely now."

Coulson sat back down.

"Think about it," May said, obviously ignoring Jemma's increasing frustration. "When she came in she had been found at a murder scene, covered in blood, with words carved into her body. The reporting officers were worried she had hurt herself or someone else, or that she _would_ hurt herself or someone else. Then she attacked Audrey, and later on she bit Leo. But what has she done, other than that, to suggest she needs to be in a psych ward?"

Fear twisted Jemma's gut. "We can't send her out of here."

"I know that," May said patiently. "At least, until we find a better place for her."

"She's having panic attacks," Jemma pointed out. "She's still performing acts of self-abuse."

"Which could both be tied to her autism."

"Or the fact that she witnessed seriously traumatizing events recently."

"One of which she might have been responsible for."

"Which would make it all the more traumatizing."

"We might need to get a baseline on her mental state," Coulson interrupted. "That would tell us how we can best help her."

May and Jemma looked at him.

"I know we've all gotten attached to her in a short amount of time. None of us wants her to go back to a situation that will harm her. She's obviously suffered enough. But we don't _actually_ know what's going on in her head. Why don't we find out?"

* * *

"Hi, Skye. I'm Dr. Banner."

 _Tall man. Not tall man. Small and unassuming man._

 _Lights._

Skye continued to look up at the overhead lights through her fingers, moving them back and forth. She was still trying to shake off the feeling of jerking back into her body after reliving that awful morning – or what she _thought_ had happened that morning – again. And she could still hear Wanda's keening, anguished screaming as she found her brother.

 _Need to go back. Go back. Go back._

 _Can't go back. Go back. Go back._

 _Turn it on. Turn it up. Turn me loose._

"And this is Mr. Stark. We want to take a look at the devices in your body. Is that all right?"

 _Going to do it anyway. Can't ask. Can't ask._

 _No answers._

 _Not this way._

"Skye?"

 _I am not Daisy. I AM NOT DAISY._

"Just do whatever you're going to do, Bruce," Mr. Stark said. "It's obvious she's not going to answer you. I don't even know if she understands you."

Dr. Banner shot a glare at Mr. Stark and Skye almost laughed. They were like a show her father used to watch – _The Odd Couple_. "I know she understands," Dr. Banner said. "Skye, I'm going to run this scanner over your spine. It won't hurt – it won't even touch your body. I just need you to pull your shirt up."

 _How it starts. How it starts._

 _Scan first. Turn on. Turn on._

 _The bees come. The noise comes._

 _Black. Black. Black. Wake up._

Gingerly Skye pulled up the pajama top she wore – a clean one, not the one she'd come back from the fifth floor in, since that one had been sweat-covered and blood-soaked – and turned so that her back was towards the two men.

" _Jesus_ ," Mr. Stark said, and Skye froze. Her scars were such a part of her that most of the time she was able to forget they existed. Never around other people, though, since they generally reacted the way Mr. Stark just had.

"It's all right, Skye," Dr. Banner said, though his voice was slightly wobbly. "We'll be done in just a moment."

Skye held still, her fingers flicking up against her mouth. She was hungry and nauseous and confused and sad and –

 _Needles. Needles in my spine._

 _Make it stop. HURTS._

She screamed and crumpled to the floor, hands over her ears, slapping against the sides of her head.

 _Make it stop. Please don't. Please don't do it again._

 _No. No. Please. I'm sorry. I'll be good._

"Tony, go get someone," Dr. Banner requested. " _Now_ would be preferable."

Mr. Stark bolted from the room. Dr. Banner knelt down in front of Skye. He knew better than to reach in and touch her. Instead he pulled a small remote control from his pocket and held it up, clicking off the lights in the examination room. He put the scanner on the floor, carefully holding up his hands to show her he wasn't going to continue.

 _I'll be good. I tried. I tried._

 _Dad? Dad?_

"Dah," Skye managed to get out. "Dah."

 _Dad?_

 _I am so sorry Dad. I will be Daisy if you want me to be._

 _If I have to be._

Jemma came in hurriedly, with Trip behind her. Jemma took Dr. Banner's place on the floor. "Skye? Can you tell us what's going on?"

She put Skye's computer on the floor and gently pushed it towards the frantic girl, hands still smacking her head.

Skye's arms locked against her body and the slapping sped up. "Dah," she whimpered. "Dah."

"Take a breath," Jemma said. "Breathe in."

" _Dah_ ," Skye cried.

A loud beep interrupted the quiet in the room and Skye howled, her body a frantic knot of pain and fear. Jemma whirled around to look at Dr. Banner.

"Her heart rate," he said, gesturing to the monitor behind him. "It's almost at 200 bpm."

"Skye," Jemma said again. "Listen to me."

Skye was gone, though, caught up in rage and desperation. Her hands against her head weren't enough – she jerked her knees up towards her body, trying to get them to smash against her face. When she couldn't, she began kicking her feet against the floor. Her breathing came in ragged gasps and the expression on her face was one of complete and utter dissociation. She was somewhere else, she was someone else, she was…

* * *

… back in the lab. Everything was cold and sterile, coming in flashes of blue and white.

Her mother. Mouth moving. Trying to explain.

(No explanation will ever be good enough.)

Strange instruments. Syringes. Alcohol wipes against her skin.

Bright light. Eyes hurt.

Searing pain against her neck. Flinching, crying, trying to get away.

Restraints.

Tiny scalpels.

Screaming, screaming, screaming…

* * *

… back into her body.

Before Skye could register the sudden change, she felt the pain rise up from her shoulder again, the device inside heating up. She only had seconds before it would shut down her system – would it be enough time to get to her computer, to explain?

She reached for it.

Her fingers grazed the edge of it before she collapsed to the floor.

* * *

"Never thought your precious Daisy would be in this much trouble."

" _Skye._ Her name is Skye."

"But this is because of what they did to Daisy. What they did to me."

"What's it to you, Flowers?"

"My resources are vast, Cal. Do you really want to insult me?"

"Tell me you've got more than an attitude."

"I've got a plan. I've got several, actually. And the phone numbers and addresses of the jurors who let your wife walk away."

"That's not enough."

Cal stood up, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. "I'll just get her back without you."

Her voice was like a seductive wave of perfume as his hand touched the doorknob. "And I know where Jiaying is now."

Cal's fingers froze.

Her voice was one of satisfaction. "I thought that might change your mind."

"All I want is Skye back with me," Cal said, defeated, his shoulders slumped. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

"That's more like it."

* * *

"Jesus," Tony Stark repeated. His fingertips carefully grazed the device in Skye's upper shoulder, now surrounded by what looked like a constellation of burst blood vessels, except for the fact that they were bright blue. "This thing knocked her out?"

Bruce nodded. "It was like she'd been electrocuted, just keeled over."

"What the hell is it?"

"I didn't exactly get a chance to finish the scan," Bruce replied.

"If it hadn't knocked her out, her body would've done it anyway," Tony observed, nodding at the monitors. "Have you ever seen a heart rate sustained at that level for longer than a few minutes?"

"Yeah, but only in someone in cardiac arrest," Bruce said. "And she was definitely not – she was upright, still moving and screaming."

Tony gently released the girl's shoulder. She muttered something and turned her head. "Something's not right with her. And I don't think it's the kind of thing we're going to be able to fix."

"Let's do our best, then," Bruce said.

Jemma returned with Phil, talking softly. Phil nodded as they approached the scientists. "Gentlemen," he said.

"Dr. Coulson," Bruce said.

"Report on our patient?"

"The device in her shoulder sent out some sort of electro-chemical pulse that short-circuited her nervous system and caused her to become unconscious," Bruce said, showing Phil the scanner's readings. "When she collapsed the scanner was still recording, and as it happened the beam was right over the devices in her skull and her shoulder."

Phil dragged his finger along the touch-screen device, moving the scanner's focus back and forth. At the moment of Skye's collapse the device in her shoulder sent out massive waves of bright blue, which he knew meant an electrical presence, and smaller, stronger pulses of red, which he assumed was chemical. "Do we know what it is yet?"

"Not a clue," Bruce answered. "But I took some blood samples to analyze and we should be able to know in a few hours."

"She was hallucinating," Jemma said softly.

The doctors turned to look at her.

"How could you tell?" Phil asked lightly.

"She didn't respond to vocal prompts," Jemma said. "When I put her computer in front of her, she turned her head to one side and she seemed to be trying to push someone away. She was clearly frightened, whereas a few moments before her expression was one of anger. And she spoke."

"She _spoke?"_ Phil was shocked.

"She was saying 'Dad,'" Jemma said. "It wasn't fully clear, but it was more of a word than I've heard her say since she got here. It wasn't echolalic, it was clearly and definitively a single word."

"I can confirm that," Tony said, and he turned one of the computer monitors towards the doctors.

One of the overhead security cameras had recorded the entire duration of Skye's episode, and as Phil watched he saw exactly what Jemma had described: the autistic girl was trying to fight with someone, her mouth moving in panic, her expression terrified.

"Damn," he whispered.

"So she's still a psych case," Jemma said.

"And we haven't got a clue how to find out what's in her head," Phil said.

"I might be able to help you there," Bruce offered. "But she has to be awake. And I don't think she's going to like it."

Jemma looked over at Skye's fragile form on the bed. "At this point we don't have any other options. We need to know what she knows, or we aren't going to be able to help her."

The unspoken subtext was that even _if_ they could find out, there was still a huge probability that they would never truly know what was going on in Skye's brain, and the odds were not in their favor that they'd be able to help her.

It was the kind of situation Jemma hated.

* * *

"Wanda?" The therapist spoke gently. "Wanda, it's time for your medication."

Wanda turned desperately to the blond woman next to her, panicked.

"I'm not going to make you leave," the therapist said. "I just want you to take your medication."

Some of the fight left Wanda's body and she nodded, taking the pills and the glass of water from the woman.

 _Bobbi_.

Things were sticking in Wanda's brain, things she needed to remember. But everything was still floating around her, distantly existing. All she could see, all she could think about, was Pietro, on the bed in front of her.

He was paler, and skinnier, and smaller than she remembered. He had a tube in his neck connected to a big machine next to the bed, and several other tubes and wires in other places running out to other machines. He looked like a robot. He looked dead.

 _Was_ _he dead?_

Wanda jerked upright and put her fingers on Pietro's face. He was still warm.

" _You need to wake up_ ," she murmured to him in Sokovian. " _I can't be here anymore without you."_

Pietro's eyes moved under his eyelids as though he was dreaming.

" _There's a girl upstairs and we need to help her_ ," Wanda went on, her voice low against Pietro's ear. " _She needs us. We've never been needed by anyone before."_

She bit her lip, trying to keep from crying. " _And we've never needed anyone before. But now I need you, because she needs us."_

There was no response, only all of the noises from all of the machines coming back to her like a robot echo.

Wanda laid her head on Pietro's chest and cried.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** NaNoWriMo is kicking my ass. Here's more of this! Updated next: "stretta malagueña."

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites! Reviews are my favorite, but everything else is greatly appreciated too.

Enjoy!

* * *

Skye woke up disoriented, unable to identify place or time. She was pretty sure she was still in the hospital, but she wasn't in her usual closet in the Blue Room. Neither was she in the testing room with Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark. She was on a soft bed in a normal-looking room, and she liked it, even though she was pretty sure it wasn't real.

Then the haze of exhaustion cleared a bit and she was able to reorganize her thoughts. She wasn't on a bed, she was curled up on a couch. A very pretty floral couch, but a couch all the same. And the normal-looking room was still definitely normal, but there was also a desk, and an official-looking office chair, and two plants, and a filing cabinet, and a delicate clock on the windowsill. She was in someone's office.

The clock caught her attention the most; she sat up and pushed herself off the couch, padding towards the window. It was a funny sort of clock, and Skye had never seen one just like it. It was egg-shaped, with a lot of gold scrollwork around it, and it stood on a fancy golden pedestal created out of similar scrollwork. Skye realized the top of the clock was meant to look like a flower, a flower wearing a gold cap. Closest to the round face was an encircling ring of green enamel, and the rest of the front of the clock was a beautiful pink color.

But the time was wrong.

Skye reached for it, to figure out what was wrong, but then stopped. She didn't know what time it was. Perhaps it was really seven-thirty. The sky outside the hospital windows was fading towards sunset; it very definitely _could_ have been seven-thirty.

She was so entranced by the setting sun that she didn't hear the door open, didn't hear someone coming up behind her until Jemma spoke. "Skye? Are you hungry?"

Skye turned around. The doctor stood in the doorway, looking tired. Suddenly Skye realized she was in _Jemma's_ office.

"Huh," she vocalized.

Jemma held out her computer.

Skye took a few cautious steps towards the doctor.

"It's all right that you're in here," Jemma said, as though Skye was seeking validation for her actions. "You were sleeping so deeply after your time with Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark. I thought it might be nice to have you some place I could keep an eye on you. I only stepped out for a minute to use the restroom."

Skye wondered why Jemma was trying to justify her actions. Skye wasn't upset about being in the doctor's office. Everything was peaceful and light-colored and so very Jemma that it all made sense.

"I thought you might like to have something to eat," Jemma went on. "Then Wanda wants you to meet her brother."

She handed the computer to Skye.

Skye took it, staring down at the screen for a few minutes. Finally she flicked it on, bringing one hand to her mouth to tap against her lips before she started to type. "I would like apples peanut butter please also apple juice grilled cheese please."

Jemma smiled. "I think we can manage that."

Something else occurred to Skye. "What day is it?" she typed.

Jemma looked surprised by the question. "Thursday. Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

Skye shook her head. "Dad, Skye watch Great Big Quiz Show channel four at eight-seven central."

"Would you like to do that here?"

"Watch with Wanda's brother."

"I think we can manage that," Jemma said. "First, let's get you something to eat."

Skye nodded. She flicked the computer off. Something at the base of her neck itched, and she reached up to scratch at it.

"Be careful," Jemma said, having caught her movements. "Dr. Banner left a monitoring device clipped to your shirt. He's concerned about some after-effects of the device in your shoulder. You'll only have to have it on for the next few hours."

Skye's fingers found the monitor. It was slim and non-intrusive, and if she hadn't been told it was there, she probably never would have realized it was there. She let go of it, following Jemma out of the office, the only thing on her mind grilled cheese and the intellectual stimulation of the Great Big Quiz Show.

* * *

Two apples, one grilled cheese, a big glass of apple juice, and – most exciting – a chocolate cupcake later, Skye followed Bobbi Morse, the nice therapist, down to the fifth floor to watch TV with Wanda and her brother.

 _Brother name Pietro._

 _Brother. Brother. Twin brother._

Skye found her fingers twisting in front of her. She was nervous. No, nauseous. No, anxious. No…

"Skye?" Bobbi asked gently. "Are you all right?"

She was hearing things again.

" _Little girl,"_ an elderly, creaky voice called to her. She turned to see the tiny form of an old man in a hospital bed, back in one of the ICU's rooms. He lay very still, a tube branching from his mouth. He was completely alone. " _Little girl are you here to set me free? Tell them. Tell them it's all right to turn off the machines."_

Skye shook her head, hard, and took a few steps forward. Another voice called out to her – a woman's voice, younger than the first. Skye could see a beautiful woman in the next bed, with long red hair and rosy cheeks despite all of the machines around her bed and the tubing coming from her neck. There were balloons in her room, and a young man holding a cap in his hands, twisting the fabric back and forth. " _Please, please. I can see your words. They missed one – angel. Please, be my angel. Don't let me…"_

A third voice overlapped the second; the third patient was an obese man whose fists moved restlessly against the rails of his bed. He, too, had a tube down his throat. " _Fuck you! Fuck you! Where is my wife?!"_

" _Little girl tell them…"_

"… _angel. Please be…"_

"… _my wife?! Find her please…"_

It was as though a hand was gripped around Skye's lungs, squeezing the breath out of her. She couldn't get enough air in. The hallway tilted around her, and she put out one hand to steady herself against the wall, bringing the other hand up to trace a word on her left elbow: _impossibility_.

"Skye, can you type for me what's wrong?" Bobbi asked, holding the computer up in front of her.

"… _please, little girl."_

" _Turn off the pain…"_

"… _want to see my wife."_

Skye's hands shook as she tried to get her hands to the computer.

Bobbi nodded encouragingly.

" _So much pain. So much pain, Daisy girl."_ That was her mother, joining the chorus. " _You can make it stop, Daisy girl."_

 _I AM NOT DAISY I AM NOT DAISY I DO NOT HAVE TO BE DAISY ANYMORE._

Skye let one of her hands flop onto the screen and focused on the keys. "I don't want to watch them all die."

Bobbi looked at her confusedly. "Who?"

 _Do you not hear them? Do you not hear her?_

Skye choked in a breath. Her fingers spasmed against the screen and the computer repeated her message. "I don't want to watch them all die."

"No one here is dying," Bobbi said.

 _What about them?_

Skye felt the pressure start in the base of her skull. She whimpered, bringing her hands up to push against it. The pressure grew and she moaned. "Hnnnnn…"

"Skye, look at me," Bobbi said. "Skye, listen to my voice, please."

Pain exploded in Skye's head like a hand grenade going off and she beat her hands against her head, screaming.

"Come with me," Bobbi said, her voice somehow still steady. "We'll go back upstairs and talk to Dr. Jemma."

Skye wanted that. She wanted to get out of here. She took a few hesitant steps towards Bobbi.

" _Fucking retard,"_ the third patient, the fat man, scoffed. " _Got all these gifts and she's nothing more than a waste of space. Just like her to be an asshole – lock those gifts away – can't even help us. Screw you."_

Skye screamed again, her hands slapping her ears ferociously.

 _Too much. Too much._

 _Mom and the patients and the machines and Bobbi and tubes and wires and rubber-soled shoes on tile floor and Jemma's office and Dad? Dad? and the radio down at the nurses' station and she says I am Daisy I AM NOT DAISY I AM NOT DAISY._

"Pppp…" Skye whimpered at Bobbi. _Please turn it off before…_

"Skye, it's okay," Bobbi said. "We'll figure it out."

The pain rose in fierce tendrils, twirling their way down her spine and into her arms like iron-studded electricity.

Skye couldn't breathe. She clenched her fists.

 _I'm so sorry. So sorry. So sorry._

* * *

Bobbi looked around. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but something had definitely set Skye off.

Then Bobbi realized things had gone oddly still. The air seemed too heavy to breathe, as though it was made of dense pound cake or Styrofoam.

Movement from something behind Skye caught the therapist's attention, and she shifted her position slightly to see what it was.

It was a pitcher of water on a cart parked just outside a patient's room, which was completely ordinary.

The fact that the pitcher was wobbling, all on its own, creating ripples in the water it held, was definitely not.

Bobbi barely had time to process that before she heard something strange – _rat-tat-a-tat, rat-tat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat_. At last she figured out what it was, though her explanation didn't make any sense: the fluorescent light ballasts overhead were shaking in their brackets.

Skye was completely still, frozen in position, her head turned to one side, sweat pouring from her brow.

The glass window in the door of the nurses' lounge shattered.

The pitcher flopped from the cart and water spilled over the floor.

The lights exploded – _one, two, three_ – leaving the hallway in partial darkness.

Skye still didn't move.

"Skye," Bobbi said hesitantly. It was ridiculous to think _Skye_ was doing this… wasn't it?

Below Bobbi's feet the floor began to shake. Another window shattered somewhere, a light further down the hallway popped in a series of sparks.

"Skye," Bobbi repeated, a bit more firmly. "Look at me, Skye."

Skye's hands rose from her sides to cup her ears. "Nnn, nnnn, nnnn, _nnnn_ …" she breathed painfully. " _Nnn, nnnn, NNNN!"_

"Skye, stay calm," Bobbi said. "We'll figure it out."

Skye sucked in a sharp breath and the floor's shaking grew worse. Alarms were going off all around them, nurses rushing in and out of rooms, barking orders at each other.

Wanda appeared in the doorway of Pietro's room and looked at Bobbi and Skye.

"It's all right, Wanda," Bobbi said. "No one's hurt."

Wanda shook her head and went back into her brother's room.

"Skye, please," Bobbi said. "If this is you, you have to make it stop."

* * *

 _I can't. Can't make it stop. Can't stop it. Not now._

It felt as though her rib cage was being ripped open, as though she was being punched in the stomach by fists of iron.

 _Have to make it stop. Don't want to hurt anyone_.

"Skye…"

Skye couldn't bear Bobbi's voice any longer. She jerked her hands away from her ears, her hands immediately clenching into fists. More things began to shake and wobble and crack apart. She thrust her fists out to the sides, feeling a surge of power and rage.

Pain roared up Skye's arms, and she looked down at them confusedly.

Bruises were sprouting on her skin like angry thumbprints, mixed with strange leafy red lines. She could hear crunching and some strange part of her brain knew she was doing it – _you're breaking yourself, Daisy_ – and another part wasn't feeling anything at all.

She looked up at Bobbi, her mouth open but unable to get anything out but a soft moan.

And then she succumbed to the pain, to the foggy darkness, feeling absolutely shattered.

Just like everything around her.

Just like her arms.

Just like her heart.

* * *

"Seventy-five hairline fractures," Jemma reported, slapping X-rays up on the light box. "Two definite oblique fractures, one in each arm but in different places in each."

Phil let out a low whistle. "Jesus."

"And she's got ruptured blood vessels all over her skin," Jemma went on. "She's down in ortho right now getting casts put on."

"How did this happen?"

Jemma shook her head. "Bobbi told me what she saw, and I've watched the security feed at least five times, and I can't figure it out."

"Talk me through it."

"Skye said she wanted to watch a TV show with Wanda and Pietro. Bobbi took her downstairs. The second they stepped onto the ward Skye began to show symptoms of anxiety and distress. She kept looking into different patients' rooms with a strange look on her face. This progressed until she was visibly upset. She typed that she didn't want to 'watch them all die.'"

Jemma bit her lip and went on. "At that point she engaged in self-harm, beating her hands against her head. And then… then the weird stuff happened. Things started shaking. Windows broke, light bulbs exploded, various objects were jolted loose from their moorings."

"After that…"

She held up her tablet for Phil to see.

Phil stared in amazement as Skye's hands came down from her ears and clenched into fists, then saw those fists thrust out with sheer anger. As her hands came down the entire hospital seemed to be caught in the midst of a violent earthquake.

"This is impossible," Phil said, stunned.

"It's… it happened," Jemma said. "I mean, we _felt_ the earthquake. Everyone in the building did. I feel as though it was extremely implausible, but…"

"No, Jemma, it's _impossible_. Things like this just don't…"

Jemma held up a small, thin disc with a clip on it. "Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark had this monitoring device attached to Skye's shirt during the event. They were hoping to gather more data about the implant in her shoulder, but it captured everything that occurred as well."

She pulled that file up on the tablet. "It mostly shows her vitals, and obviously those weren't in the normal range – heart rate and respiratory rate extremely accelerated, blood pressure and body temperature similarly heightened. I have further data on the chemicals flooding through her at the moment of the final quake, but the most important thing captured by the monitor is this."

Jemma scrolled over to a series of images. "During the entire series of events, there were seismic waves being produced."

"Of course," Phil said. "It was an earthquake."

"True," Jemma said. "But if it was a naturally-occurring earthquake, those seismic waves would have been pushing _in_ on Skye's body the way they were on Bobbi's."

She showed him a still capture from the security feed, overlaid on to a spectrographic filter. Wiggly lines pulsed towards Bobbi's body. "But when we look at Skye…"

She flipped to the next image and it caused Phil to nearly stop breathing. "The waves are…"

"The waves are coming out of her," Jemma said softly. "Skye was _producing_ the seismic waves."

Phil was stunned. " _Jesus_."

"We thought we had an autistic young woman who lived through serious mental and emotional trauma. Now we've got an autistic young woman rescued from a human experimentation trial, who lived through serious mental, emotional, and physical trauma, who may or may not have killed a man a few days ago, with a handful of unknown medical implements in her body, and who is now, apparently, creating earthquakes."

Phil shook his head. "It sounds like science fiction."

Jemma gave him a sad smile. "Until we figure it out, that's the only explanation we have."

"I don't think we're meant to figure this out," Phil said. "The people who did this to her…"

"No," Jemma interrupted him. "She deserves better than everything she's ever gotten, and that's what Shield Memorial is all about. We don't give up on anyone here, whether they're causing earthquakes or refusing to speak. We'll find a solution. We _have_ to. She's… she's special."

Phil didn't ask why she looked so suddenly sad; he couldn't even correctly identify the ache in his own heart. "She's special," he repeated, his voice a near whisper, and for the first time in the years they'd worked together, he stepped forward and wrapped Jemma Simmons in a tight hug.

She sobbed into his shoulder and Phil just waited for his world to stop shaking.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Okay! I feel like this was the hardest chapter to write for some reason, but now I'm over this hiccup and I think the next chapters, whenever I get around to them, will be much easier to write.

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites. You're all amazing and I'm so lucky to have such awesome people supporting me.

I'm memorysdaughter on Tumblr where I take prompts.

Next to be updated: who knows. I'll see where the spirit leads me.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _Arms. Arms. Arms. Hurt._

Skye blinked up at the orderlies as they set her in a pile of soft blankets. _Computer?_

The nice orderly – _Trip_ – knelt down in front of her. "Dr. Jemma will be here soon. This is your new room."

 _This isn't a room_. Skye looked around. _This is a bunker_.

"I have some apples and pretzels," Trip went on.

He showed them to her. The snacks were neatly organized on a tray, along with a can of Sprite.

Skye's eyes lit up. "Bah-bahhh!"

"Dr. Jemma says you deserve a treat," Trip said. "Eat your snack."

Skye reached for the pretzels and then hesitated. Her fingers were bound in the casts. She couldn't pick up the food.

"I got'cha, girl," Trip said, and he sat down across from her.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Can we listen to some music?"

Skye nodded. No one had ever asked her opinion on something like that before.

Trip turned on something Skye hadn't heard before, music with a good beat, and he cracked open the can of Sprite, putting a straw in it. "Which one first?"

She indicated the pretzels, and Trip obediently fed her two of them.

It was quiet, except for Trip's music, and Skye felt relaxed. She knew it was because of the pain meds they'd given her, and that she wouldn't be awake for much longer, but she was glad Trip was with her, glad that no one was upset.

"Hey, girl, can I ask you a question?" Trip asked.

Skye waited until she finished swallowing a mouthful of Sprite, and nodded.

"Did you really make the hospital shake?"

Skye froze.

"Hey, hey, I'm not judging," Trip said. "I'm trying to understand what you're going through."

He put a small piece of apple in her mouth.

She chewed. Then she nodded.

"I'm so sorry."

 _Why?_ Skye wondered.

"It must be very difficult to live with something you can't control," Trip said.

Skye found her eyes closing, and she quickly reached out for Trip, trying to indicate that she wanted her computer.

"Dr. Jemma will be here soon," Trip said. "Are you all done?"

 _No. No. Want Sprite._

Skye hesitantly brought one hand down towards the can of soda.

"I'll put it in the patient fridge upstairs," Trip offered. "I'll put your name on it."

He gathered up the snacks and turned off his phone. Skye missed the music nearly immediately.

"You liked that? I'll see if I can bring you something else to listen to later," Trip said.

Skye nodded.

Trip hesitated at the door. "I know this seems kinda silly, but I wanted to say… I think everything's going to turn out all right."

Skye yawned and curled up in the blankets.

"Dr. Jemma will be here soon," Trip added, and he let the door close behind him.

Skye drowsed and then slept. When she woke she was unsure of how much time had passed, but the room was still around her. One of the orderlies had told her what the room was originally designed for, but she couldn't remember. Its walls were thick and even the air seemed to be firmer, denser. Trapped, just like she was.

Her body felt heavy, too; she tried to get up from her pile of blankets but couldn't move.

 _You're safe here_ , Skye heard Dr. Jemma's voice.

 _Safe here safe here safe here_.

 _Here. Here. Here. Safe here._

 _Except when you're not._

 _Not safe. Not safe._

 _Not. Safe._

"But you're never really safe, are you, Daisy?" Her mother's voice twisted up her spine, slithering into the spaces between her bones. "No one's really safe when you're around, are they?"

Skye moaned.

 _Could be. Could be._

"But they're not."

Skye tried to get one hand up to her head, tried to push her mother's voice away.

"You weren't designed to be safe, Daisy."

 _Could be. Could be._

"You were designed to be a weapon."

Skye let out a scream, empty and sick, and managed to get her broken arms up to her ears. She rolled back and forth on her blanket pallet, hands over her ears, sobbing. _No, no, no, please. I'm not a weapon. I am not Daisy. I am NOT._

She couldn't breathe; she gulped air frantically, hiccupping and writhing, her arms on fire with pain, the entire room vibrating around her.

"Oh, Daisy." Her mother's voice sounded amused. "You're not any stronger than you were when you left me. You can't fight me. You can't fight what you _are_ , what you were _meant_ to be."

" _No_ ," Skye sobbed.

"And you were meant to destroy," her mother continued. "I'll give you partial credit for destroying your own arms, Daisy… next time it'll be something bigger."

Skye howled, her broken hands slamming into her ears _again and again and again_. Panic flared in hot tongues around her rib cage. She tumbled from the pallet to the floor and lay, face down, shuddering and weeping.

"You liked it, didn't you? You liked having all that power, Daisy…"

Skye forced her aching, throbbing head a few inches up from the floor and then slammed it back down. Pain ensnared her entire body.

 _Again_.

She lost track of how many times she raised her head and slammed it against the concrete floor, but at some point her mother's voice faded away and the gradual static white noise drifted back in.

 _Wssshhhhshhhh – looking for – wsssshhhhhh – for you – wssshhhhwshsshhh – coming now and –_

* * *

Wanda felt the itch start at the base of her spine and wanted to weep.

" _It's starting again_ ," she murmured to Pietro in Sokovian.

He didn't respond, but she could imagine his answer. (Ignore it. It will stop.)

" _You know it won't."_

(Ignore it. You promised me.)

The itch grew from an irritation to a true annoyance, spreading out to her hips. She whimpered and gripped Pietro's hand. " _Wake up. I don't want to do this without you."_

(You're not going to do anything.)

" _I need to. It's going to hurt."_

(You promised me.)

" _I know I promised!"_ she half-shrieked at him. " _And you're here in a hospital bed tethered to enough machines to build an army of robots and I can't make it stop!"_

Wanda grit her teeth. The nagging, tugging feeling rose from her hips to the bottom of her rib cage, feeling less like an itch now and more like a nasty sunburn. It was difficult to breathe. " _Please, Pietro_ ," she begged in their native language. " _Please make it stop."_

(Stay here,) she knew he'd say. (Don't give into it. It will stop.)

Wanda tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to focus on Pietro's breathing machine and time her inhales and exhales precisely with it. " _It's too hard_ ," she moaned.

(It's your fault we're in this situation, you selfish bitch.)

Wanda jerked back from Pietro's bed. His eyes were still closed. "Did you…?"

She stared down at him, trying to figure out what was real and what wasn't.

The itch took advantage of her movement, of her loss of concentration, and redoubled its efforts, running the length of her spine, attempting to crush her like an action hero in a jungle temple's room of treasures, pressed between two swiftly-moving walls that would meet in the middle. Wanda gripped Pietro's bed for stability but the room was swimming all the same.

" _I have to go_ ," she managed to get out.

(Selfish. Bitch.)

" _No, Pietro, I'm_ _not_ ," Wanda sobbed. " _I just want it to stop!"_

She got to her feet, her entire body shaking, and forced her complaining limbs to somehow work in harmony. Two steps, three, four…

A wave of relief rolled over her in the hallway, as though the firm hand squeezed around her rib cage released.

And as she stumbled out of Pietro's ward, down the steps and away from her brother, the itch only lessened. It made her sick.

(Selfish,) Pietro's mocking voice rang in her ears.

Wanda shook her head as she stopped on the ground floor. The itch was minimal, but it was still there. She closed her eyes and let the voices flow over her, searching for the point to anchor her compass.

 _One-eighty over ninety…_

… _two units of O-neg, type and cross_

… _at a meeting with Robert and Elaine_

… _multiple MVA traumas at the intersection of…._

 _I am not a weapon_ _._

Wanda's eyes flew open. The itch coiled itself into a red-hot ball and pummeled her spine, shoving her forward. She weaved through knots of people, of nurses and doctors and patients, of life and of death, until she stood before a heavy white door covered in bright red-and-white signs.

She looked up at them. The white letters detached themselves from their positions and swirled around, rearranging eventually into new words.

Wanda still couldn't understand them. She shook her head, hard.

The signs waited, leering.

"Skye is here," she murmured. She couldn't read the signs, but the itch was singing in her bones; it was undeniable.

Wanda reached out and grasped the door handle. She tugged the door towards her, but it remained firmly locked.

Panic leapt in her chest and the itch flooded through her.

 _I have to get in there_.

Wanda turned around and scanned her surroundings. The area was clear, the door almost hidden in a back corridor.

(If they catch you, you're dead,) Pietro's matter-of-fact voice informed her.

 _So they'd better not catch me_.

Wanda took a deep breath and turned back to the door. She grasped the handle with her left hand and brought her right hand up. With a practiced movement she trailed her fingers through the air for a few inches before curling them in. Scarlet energy surrounded her fingers in wispy strands; she hesitated only briefly before pulling her fingers back and shooting some of those strands towards the door.

The lock gave a resigned _poof_ and red energy exploded through the keyhole. Wanda called the energy back to her, dissipating it into the air around her, before pulling the door open and disappearing into whatever lay beyond.

* * *

Skye felt warm hands roll her face-up, scoop her aching body from the floor, and cradle her close. She tasted blood and her vision was blurry; her arms throbbed and her throat was raw from screaming. She was too weak to fight whoever it was, and found hot shame bubbling up in her chest as she curled in closer.

"Pretty girl," a soft voice breathed. "Stay with me, pretty girl. Is all right."

 _Turn it off_ , Skye begged mutely. She tried to get her eyes open but couldn't. The noise in her head was overwhelming.

"Will maybe hurt only a little," the soft voice responded, and Skye placed it. _Wanda_.

"Hold very still," Wanda went on, and Skye did her best.

She felt Wanda's hand gently brush her hair away from the back of her neck, and then two of Wanda's fingers pressed against the device planted at the top of Skye's spine. Skye tried not to move or whimper as Wanda pushed in, _hard_.

Something like an electrical shock snapped through Skye's body and she screamed.

"Is over," Wanda's voice promised. "Is over."

Skye gulped in air, her arms and legs loose and disconnected. She was nauseous and the room spun around her. Then her heart rate began to slow and she realized something.

For the first time – _the first time_ – in nearly six years, the white noise in her head was gone.

Not just turned down, not simply waiting for her.

It was gone.

Her head was quiet.

Her head was her own.

Tears of joy flooded Skye's eyes and she snuggled closer to Wanda. The older girl stroked Skye's hair and began singing in her sweet voice, the words still foreign but no less beautiful.

Skye closed her eyes, feeling content and centered, and dropped into a clear, deep pool of unconscious slumber.

* * *

Jiaying couldn't believe what she was seeing – an error message. One she'd never seen, at least not from Skye's equipment.

"Fatal Device Error 08-4. Status: Permanently offline due to major device malfunction or surge-through. Consult manufacturer for more information."

" _Shit_ ," Jiaying swore. She shoved back from her monitoring screens. Someone was going to pay.

Someone was meddling with her prize, with her golden child, and whoever that was would live just long enough to regret it…

… but not much longer.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Hi, guys! It's been awhile for this story, but for better or worse I'm back. I'm hoping to keep the updates coming more regularly, though there have been some changes in my life and there are more on the way, so no guarantees on anything.

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites/etc. I appreciate all of the support!

I've been posting this on most of my updates, but I haven't gotten around to it on here: I discovered not too long ago that someone stole this story, changed a few things, and re-posted it as their own on AO3. I was alerted to this by two of my Tumblr followers and I am so grateful for that. I was extremely furious about what happened; taking this story especially hurt as it deals with some very personal elements. I dealt with that and their version of the story was removed from AO3. Please let me know if you see anyone else re-posting anything I've written. I post on here and on Tumblr as **memorysdaughter;** on AO3 I am **earthquakegirl**. Any other account that posts my work is doing so without my consent.  I have never and will never give consent for that to occur.

Enjoy!

* * *

Phil knocked on the open door of Jemma's office. "I've got something you're going to want to see," he said, and held up a flash drive. "I was just down talking to Eric in Security, and I mentioned that I wanted extra eyes on Skye's new living quarters. He said Sam and Billy were already providing extra monitoring, and that they had her first two hours recorded and up on a drive for me."

"They're strangely efficient, aren't they?" Jemma asked. She closed the file she'd been writing in. "Anything interesting?"

Phil hesitated. "On the scale of today's excitement… no. On every other day… _very_."

He handed her the drive and waited while it loaded.

Jemma clicked open the first of three files. The screen was divided into quadrants – the first showing the hallway directly outside Skye's locked room, focusing intently on the door; the other three were from cameras inside the room, each providing a different angle. The footage was cued up to move at a rapid pace; viewing the first hour only took six minutes, and consisted of Mack and Trip bringing Skye into the room, Trip remaining behind to feed Skye a snack, Trip's departure, and Skye settling back down into her blankets.

The second video file started with a few minutes of Skye seeming to rest peacefully, then devolved into a complete meltdown. Screaming, self-abuse; the room shook around her. Skye curled into herself and began beating her head against the floor. Jemma lost count of how many times she did it, focused only on the blood spilling from Skye's forehead and the terrified screams escaping from Skye's mouth.

"She needs medical attention," Jemma said to Phil as soon as the video ended.

"I've got a team down there right now taking care of her," Phil said. "The third video is where things get weird."

Jemma frowned at him.

"Watch the camera mounted over the door," Phil suggested, pointing to the quadrant containing that footage.

For a few minutes nothing happened on-screen in that area, though in the room Skye continued to beat her head against the floor. Then…

"Is that…?" Jemma breathed.

"Miss Maximoff," Phil agreed with a nod.

"What's she doing?" Jemma leaned forward and watched as Wanda first tugged at the locked door handle, then turned around to inspect her surroundings.

The Sokovian girl's hand went up and _something_ escaped from her fingertips.

"What the hell is that?" Jemma demanded, pausing the video.

"I have no clue," Phil replied.

Jemma restarted the video and together they watched as a burst of the same _something_ flared up inside the lock. Wanda tugged the door open and disappeared into the room. Jemma immediately turned her attention to those quadrants of the screen.

Wanda scooped Skye up from the floor, seemingly oblivious to the blood flowing from Skye's forehead and mouth. Wanda's fingers moved to the back of Skye's head and lingered there, discharging more of the _something_. Skye screamed and then her entire body went limp. She seemed to move closer to Wanda, her eyes closing. Wanda's mouth moved; Jemma realized, belatedly, that her selectively mute patient spoke the entire time she was with Skye.

Jemma sat back in her chair. "I don't understand any of this."

"Join the club," Phil said. "Bobbi and Trip went to get Wanda. She should be here any minute. I'd like to ask her what she was doing down there… and more importantly, how she knew Skye was down there."

Jemma put her head in her hands. "And to think, just a few days ago my biggest worries involved fighting with insurance companies for continued coverage for patients."

"World's a weird place, isn't it?" Phil smiled. "God, I love puzzles."

* * *

Dimly Wanda registered the nice blond therapist helping her to her feet. She felt a trickle of blood making its way down her face, emanating from her nose. Her body was limp and uncooperative; she stumbled and swayed. Eventually she felt the therapist – _Bobbi_ – strategically place arms around her torso, half-carrying her to the hallway, where there was a wheelchair waiting.

Wanda slumped into it, looking up at Bobbi. " _I need sugar_ ," she said, aware that she was speaking Sokovian but unable to think of the English words. " _Sugar. Candy. Soda. Something. Please don't let me pass out. That's when the nightmares come."_

Bobbi looked down at her in surprise, and Wanda realized the therapist had never heard her voice. "We'll figure it out," Bobbi said, sounding only somewhat confused.

" _Please. Please don't let me pass out_ ," Wanda begged. Her face was going numb and the blood dripped onto her pajamas. She wiped at it with one hand; her limbs felt like lead. She gripped the armrests of the wheelchair as Bobbi deftly rolled it into the elevator.

"It's all right," Bobbi said. "You're safe."

" _I can't be safe if the nightmares come!"_ Wanda shrieked. Pressure built in her chest and she gulped air frantically. " _You won't be safe either!"_

Her hands were shaking. She looked down to see wisps of scarlet extending from her fingers.

" _Oh, no,_ " she moaned. " _Please stop. Please help me. Please!"_

The elevator doors opened and Bobbi wheeled her out onto the eighth floor. Dr. Jemma and Dr. Phil were there, both regarding her with stern expressions.

Wanda gulped more air and forced English words out of her mouth. "Need. Sweet. Now."

She tried to get to her feet. If the nightmares were coming she needed to be somewhere safe, and out in the open on the ward definitely wasn't it. She made it two steps before the room tilted around her and she grabbed onto the closest thing to stabilize herself.

It was Dr. Jemma, and she looked terrified. Wanda couldn't blame her; she hadn't been out of control like this since the day Pietro was shot. "Need. To eat. Sugar," she gasped out. The pressure spread up from her chest to her neck and she knew it was almost too late.

Dr. Phil and Dr. Jemma exchanged looks. Dr. Phil bolted over to the nurses' station and grabbed the jar of lollipops Dr. Jemma kept there. He took the lid off and began unwrapping lollipops, handing them to Dr. Jemma as quickly as he could.

Wanda snatched the first four out of Dr. Jemma's hand and shoved them into her mouth, crunching down on the hard candy. She yanked the sticks out of her mouth and let them fall to the floor. As soon as more lollipops were presented, she repeated the same process. Drool ran out of her mouth, mingling with the blood still seeping from her nose; she was too far gone to care.

At some point she became aware that the pressure was easing. Her lips were caked in flecks of candy and she felt the sugar rushing through her, replacing what using her gifts had taken out of her. And yet still she held her hand out for more. She was still untethered and loose and desperate.

"Wanda, slow down," Dr. Jemma said. "Take a breath."

Bobbi approached with a glass with a straw in it and held it out. "It's juice," she said. "Apple juice."

Wanda grabbed it from her. Ignoring the straw, she gulped it down. Her heart was racing now, but she saw the wisps of scarlet recede into her hands. She found her surroundings stabilizing and closed her eyes gratefully. "Thank you," she murmured to Dr. Jemma.

"What do you need now, Wanda?" Dr. Jemma asked gently.

Exhausted, Wanda let out a sigh. "Cannot sleep."

"I think that might be best for you," Dr. Jemma said slowly. Wanda realized Mack, the orderly, was standing next to her, recording her vital signs; she wondered how long he'd been there. "Your vital signs are extremely distressed."

"Cannot sleep!" Wanda repeated loudly. "Need…"

She ran out of English, her body ready for a crash. "… _more sugar_."

Dr. Jemma tilted her head. "Can you tell me that again? In English?"

Wanda pointed to the lollipop wrappers littering the ground like leaves fallen from a tree.

"Sugar? You need more sugar?"

Wanda nodded.

"We can put in an IV," Dr. Jemma said.

Wanda jerked her hands back. "No!" she screamed. The pressure seized her again and she clenched her hands into fists. " _Please don't give me the needles_."

"I wish we understood what she was saying," Dr. Phil murmured.

Wanda frantically tried to breathe. It wasn't working. Little black dots danced around the edges of her vision and she grabbed out for whatever she could. Her hands went limp and her body followed suit. She collapsed to the floor and remembered nothing else.

* * *

Skye kept her eyes closed, listening to everything happening around her. Trip brought her noise-canceling headphones, which rested securely over her ears, but she could still hear enough to know what was occurring in the room. People were talking, and two doctors bent over her, cleaning her wounds and applying ointment and bandages.

She looked up at Trip, who held her hand. _Where is Wanda?_ _Wanda. Wanda is my friend._

That realization startled her. She'd never had a friend before.

 _Friend. Friend. Friend_. Skye tried it out in her head.

She waited for her mother's voice to slither back in, to tell her that she had no friends, she'd never have any friends, that she wasn't worthy of friendship or trust or love.

There was nothing.

It was still a shock. For six years she'd heard nothing but her mother. Now the silence was deafening and oh-so-pure.

Skye liked it.

"Once we've got you patched up, we'll take you back upstairs," Trip said. "Don't worry if you fall asleep again. We'll make sure you're safe in your room on the eighth floor. That's where you'll be when you wake up. Does anything hurt? Your arms?"

Skye shook her head. Everything thrummed with a dull ache, but she was afraid of what more medication would do to her. It had been a very stressful couple of days.

She kept her hand in Trip's and closed her eyes, letting the silence wrap around her like a warm hug as she drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Jemma stood in the doorway of Wanda's room. Dr. May was leaning over the Sokovian girl's bed, checking her vital signs. Since Wanda's collapse she'd remained unresponsive; the medical team assessed her condition and ordered a glucose drip, fluids, and constant monitoring. Jemma looked down at the chart in her hands: _Blood sugar of eight. Heart rate at two-seventy-five when she collapsed. Blood pressure so low it wasn't registering. Temperature one-oh-four._

"How is she still alive?" Dr. May's voice broke through Jemma's thoughts.

"I was just thinking the same thing," Jemma said softly.

"And she survived whatever happened to her – and she's _recovering_ ," Dr. May went on. "Any other patient this happened to, they'd be dead. At least twice over. And she's fighting back. She's still breathing on her own. Her heart's still beating. I wouldn't be surprised if she wakes up here in a few hours with no other negative side effects. She's just… very, _very_ asleep."

"Then let's leave her," Jemma said. "I'll go check in on Skye."

Dr. May nodded. "I'm going to look back through Skye's vital signs during the time she was held downstairs to see if we can figure out what Miss Maximoff did."

"Could you…" Jemma hesitated. "No, that's silly."

"What?"

"Could you go through the records of what happened when Wanda and her brother were attacked?" Jemma asked. "I want to… I want to go back and see if any of this lines up."

"I'll make sure we have all of the information possible," Dr. May answered. "We'll figure this out."

She stopped in the doorway. "And Jemma… what I said earlier, about Skye not belonging here any longer… obviously I was wrong. She needs to be with people who will fight for her, and obviously that's here, with you."

* * *

Skye woke sometime later in her closet and she smiled. It wasn't home, it would never be home, but it felt safe. Her arms no longer hurt, and the tugging and itching from the bandages on her head was minimal. The noise in her head remained absent. It was the happiest and the sanest she'd been in a very long time, and she was both delighted and confused by it all.

When she opened the closet door she discovered a small tray on the floor in front of it containing an open can of Sprite in an insulated holder, a straw already placed in it, and two chocolate cupcakes. A note was attached to the tray: _Hey, girl. Thought you might want something to eat when you wake up. – Trip_.

Skye forced herself to eat slowly, enjoying each bite of the cupcakes and alternating between the chocolate-and-cream and the lemon-lime flavors of her snack. Once she was finished she washed her hands in the sink bolted to the wall by the door and grabbed her computer.

It was strange, not having the white noise telling her where to go. In the hallway she hesitated, turning her head one way and then the other.

 _Wanda. Wanda. Friend. Wanda._

Skye set off for the Red Room. The door was partially closed; she stepped up close to it and peeked in.

Her friend – that was still a weird word – lay on the bed, apparently fast asleep. A monitoring device of some kind sat next to an IV pump at Wanda's bedside.

 _I did. I did not hurt. I did not hurt Wanda._

Skye tapped her lips.

 _Her hands. On my head. Solved the noise._

 _Wanda hurt. Wanda hurt Wanda._

She let out a soft noise of sadness, and without further hesitation she slipped into the room. Skye crawled up on the bed next to her friend and lay down, running her fingers through Wanda's long hair.

 _Sorry. Didn't ask. Didn't ask._

 _Wanted noise gone. Not like this._

Skye curled in towards Wanda and tried to remember the lullaby from earlier. As she attempted to get a few notes to escape her vocal cords, she realized something.

 _Never sang. Never sang._

It was a day of firsts, and though she knew she wasn't coming even close to the lullaby, somehow the attempt made her feel better about everything that had happened.

And everything that was undoubtedly coming.


End file.
